Burn
by Many Sleepless Nights
Summary: Dean probably thinks Sam hasn't noticed how much liquor disappeared from the cabinet on a nightly basis. How often Dean starts twitching and shaking. That he's been up until four in the morning every morning and having nightmares for the two hours he actually gets to sleep. How he stares at the mark on his forearm for a second too long every time it comes into view. He has.
1. Chapter 1

_I was ready to die, Dean!_

The words echo in his head, his brother's screaming getting louder as he lifts the bourbon to his lips with a shaking hand.

_What you do want me to say - that I'm pissed? Okay. I am. I'm pissed._

He's used to this now, hearing Sam even though Sam's giving him the silent treatment from the other room. They're just fragments, flashes of memory that never really stop. He takes another swig of his drink and clutches onto the wooden desk in front of him, where the case papers left sprawled out, unread. Sam will be mad he's not doing research like he told him to. Sam will find a way to be mad even if he does read them.

_So, what? You decide to trick me into being possessed by some... psycho angel?_

"Stop," Dean groans under his breath, "Stop." He sounds weak and helpless even to his own ears. It was a nightmare to hear the words come from his brother's mouth the first time. He doesn't want to relive what he knows he fucked up. And he did. He fucked up, and Sam won't let him forget it. Neither will his masochistic mind.

_I'm... I'm poison, Sam. People get close to me, they get killed...or worse _

He hears his own voice, now, too. He remembers saying these words, meaning them. He still mean them, not that his brother would ever listen to him long enough to actually hear him out.

_Go. I'm not gonna stop you._

It's Sam again, his voice cold and bitter. Dean feels the ripple of guild climb up and down his spine. He made him like that. Dean made him bitter, made him hate him. It's his fault, it's always his fault. And he's too caught up in his own thoughts and painful memories to realize he's shaking, so hard that the desk is moving and he can't see anything but blurs. His teeth are chattering, eyes blinking fast, and he's trying to calm himself down but he can't. He can't stop shaking.

_Just go_

He hears that last part over and over again, like the record of his mind is stuck on repeat.

_Just go._

He screams in frustration, pushing himself out of his chair in one violent motion and swiping his arms across the desk. Papers go flying, the desk lamp falling and crashing to the ground. And then there's silence.

"What the fuck is going on?" he hears, before Sam storms in, the perfect mixture of confusion and pissed playing on his face. It's pretty much the only expression besides disappointment Dean sees from him anymore.

"Nothing I—" He doesn't know what to say. He's stumbling with his words, not sure how to explain it because he doesn't know what happened, either, "Nothing. Too many papers, too much stress, and too much alcohol." Dean flashes his most reassuring smile, hoping Sam doesn't ask questions. And then he remembers— Sam isn't speaking to him at all, really, so why would he ask questions?

"You're so freakin' weird," Sam huffs, rolling his eyes, annoyed, "I'm going to bed. Try not to scream so loud, okay?"

"You got it," Dean mumbles after he's gone, "I mean why should you be concerned your brother who just had a mental breakdown?"

On the other side of the door, Sam's trying his hardest to suppress the worry knotting in his stomach. Because he's mad, of course, but something's not right. Something's really, really not right. He can see it in the way Dean stands, now, guarded and tense, like he's ready for something deadly to explode into the room and attack him. Or maybe it's how he talks, or how he's stopped talking much at all. No more snarky comments or teasing comebacks— Sam hasn't even heard a pop-culture reference for days, weeks maybe. The only words that seem to come out of his mouth now are one word answers that sound like they physically hurt to say. But there can't be anything wrong. Because Dean would tell him, right?

Maybe not.

Sam knows he's been harsh. He knows he isn't being a good brother, but he'd be a bad person to let Dean get away with the shit he's pulled. Maybe the cold shoulder is unnecessary, but it feels good to finally be the one not doing something wrong. For once, he wasn't the one screwing everything up. Like with Ruby, The Demon blood, The Apocalypse, everything he did when he was missing his soul… Sam was the screw up of the family. Not listening to dad, not listening to Dean. But now Dean hadn't listened to him, and Gadreel is out somewhere with Metatron, damning the world together, and it's Deans fault. It's selfish and wrong, but it's how he feels. He really does feel betrayed, he really is pissed and hurt and confused. He didn't ask for Dean to save him, and he didn't want him to, especially not if Kevin…

Kevin would be so angry at them. Before he left with his mother he told them to stop. He called them out on their shit and practically begged them not to let it rip apart their relationship. Sam's not so sure there's much of a relationship to salvage anymore. It's slowly disintegrating, and it hurts like a bitch, but everything gets worse before it gets better. And Sam needs this to get better. He needs his brother, but he can't be so dependent on him. It's unhealthy, and wrong. Everything about them has always been like that.

"_Dean's your weakness," _Gabriel once told him, back when they saw him as the enemy trickster he seemed to be, _"And the bad guys know it, too. It's gonna be the death of you, Sam." _

Sighing, Sam retreats to his bedroom. It's too quiet here, the building too big for just the two of them, especially when they're already worlds away. It's the ongoing Cold War in here, with Dean's room strategically placed as far away from Sam's as the building allows possible. Hell, if he didn't think Sam wouldn't notice, Dean would probably sleep in the office every night to avoid his angry brother.

Sam wants to cry, or scream, maybe. When did being Dean's brother get so hard? Since when did Dean start flipping shit over stressful documents? Dean probably thinks he hasn't noticed how much liquor disappeared from the cabinet on a nightly basis. How often Dean starts twitching and shaking. That he's been up until four in the morning every morning, and having nightmares for the two or three hours he actually gets to sleep. How he stares at the mark on his forearm for a second too long every time it comes into view, and how he's started wearing long sleeves, even if it's almost eighty degrees inside. The violent way he speaks, the sudden outbursts of anger. Sam notices, but he doesn't say a thing.

Sam can't even begin to think about sleeping, not when he can feel Dean's stress from the other side of the building, radiating from the office. He thinks about going and talking to him, but knows it'll only end in yelling and booze sliding down his brother's throat. He thinks about calling Cas for help, but he's not quite sure what he's dealing with and Castiel isn't exactly pleasant when Dean's health— mental or physical— is at question. So Sam just closes his eyes and pretends not to hear the sound of silence that deafens the bunker. Dean has never been quiet, not in all the years Sam can remember, so why the sudden calming stillness of a mute house?

The worry in Sam's stomach multiplies and tightens. Maybe he should call Cas, after all. But he knows he won't. Whatever this 'Mark' Dean refers to is doing to him, it's not something heal-able with voodoo magic. Especially when Castiel doesn't even have his own grace. Someone else's doesn't give him the power his did. Instead, Sam logs onto his laptop. When in doubt, research it all out, right? So he googles it, the Mark of Cain, and he gets pages. Millions of them. Filled with Wikipedia pages and Christian storybooks, and crappy movies. He reads about Cain and Able, the first murderer to ever walk the earth, cursed forever. God's disappointment, second only to Lucifer himself.

"Dammit Dean," Sam mutters under his breath, shaking his head. He can't decide if he's worried or angry, but the second option takes over. Sam paces around, his face contorting into every emotion he's feeling: different levels of pissed. He looks for cures, for spells, potions, anything. There's nothing. He clears his history before passing out on his mattress.

Dean stares up at the ceiling fan from a few rooms over, watching the endless loop of the wooden planks. He feels the cool air coming from it, but it's almost too cold. Like it's chilling him to the bone. _Something_ is, anyways. He tries to imagine himself anywhere but here, losing himself in the swirling pattern of never ending circles.

_So, what—we're not family now?_

He sees a flash of his and Sam's conversation from weeks before, the offended, stricken words he'd spoken when Sam told him that family meant nothing. He remembers the crushing feeling of a brother telling you he can never trust you again. That you're hardly even family anymore. He knows he doesn't deserve it. That, really, he deserves to be alone. But that doesn't keep the words from hurting.

_Even when you mess up, you think what you're doing is worth it because you've convinced yourself you're doing more good than bad... But you're not_

This is a different conversation. This one is from the room just three doors from where Dean sits. It hits him like a ton of bricks, too, how Sammy— Sam, just Sam now.— could say something like that. But he knows it's true. Dammit, he knows.

_I mean, Kevin's dead, Crowley's in the wind. We're no closer to beating this angel thing._

And it's Dean's fault. It's completely his fault. He wakes up and it's the first thing he thinks: "Hey Kevin's dead, your brother hates you and you've pretty much screwed yourself over with everything else."

His stomach hurts, but then again it always does. Maybe it's the alcohol or a side effect of the Mark. Or maybe it's just because, in Dean's experience, there will always be nervousness or guilt or worry in his gut, because those are the only emotions that stay. Everything else leaves. Everyone else leaves.

_Please tell me, what is the upside of me being alive?_

Mental-Sam begs him, almost mockingly, and he wants to tell Sam that he being alive means _everything._ That without Sam Winchester, the world would fall apart._ His_ world would fall apart. But that's selfish, and exactly Sam's point. Dean is selfish. Worthless. Pointless. If there really is one too many Winchesters in the world like Sam thinks there is, Dean would be damned if he let Sam be the one to leave it.

He sees pieces of Sam's disappointed eyes in his mind. He feels his hands wrap around a glass bottle, but he can't tell if it's the memory or if he's taking a drink from the one that was on the desk with him. This memory tastes like Scotch and anger. He knows how it'll end, but he still hopes maybe it won't.

_You didn't save me for me. You did it for you._

Selfish.

Selfish Selfish Selfish!

Dean is too self-centered. Too full of himself to give Sammy what he deserves. And he'll burn for that, just like he'll burn for Kevin's death and Cas' fall from heaven and all of the people he couldn't save, like Adam who did nothing but take the burden of Michael that Dean was supposed to bear. Dean will burn again. If he isn't already.

_You didn't want to be alone, and that's what all this boils down to. You can't stand the thought of being alone._

And Dean struggles, thinking of the nights spent after Sam left for Stanford, while dad went off on his own and he was left sleeping in the back seat of the impala, pretending everything would 'go back to normal' in a few days. It never really did. Normal was family, then, but Sam seems to think differently. He isn't considered family anymore, through his brother's eyes. So what is normal?

This is definitely not normal, having PTSD moments about how much of a disappointment you are. And drinking a fifth of whiskey every night wasn't either. Meeting the original Knight of Hell and taking on the weight of a trillion year old curse with deadly side effects to stop an evil demon from taking over hell…? Then again, chasing after monsters of the night that want to eat you isn't considered normal. Talking to angels isn't normal. Normal, in Dean's life, is a fucking lie.

_If the situation were reversed and I was dying, you'd do the same thing_.

Memory-Dean says, and the real Dean cringes, because he knows what Sam will say next.

_No, Dean. I wouldn't circumstances...I wouldn't._

He can feel the fist tear trickle slowly down his face, and once the first comes they don't stop. They sting his faces, dripping off his chin and onto his chest. Tears steam, fast and steady. It's the won't kind of crying, the soundless, broken kind, because no one can hear you and you realize that even if someone did— they probably wouldn't care. His face twists and contorts, the pressure building up inside of him, but he can't cry out.

He can't bother Sammy.

So instead, he just lets the tears fall and pretends not to notice them at all, as he takes in another swig of his drink. The symbol on his arm feels like it's burning into his skin. The memories feel like they're burning into his head. He almost screams again, but stops and walks out. Maybe he would go for a drive, if he was in any sober, sane condition to. But he's not, and he can't, even if maybe running off the road now wouldn't be the worst thing to ever happen to him. He craves the thought of death. Not necessarily his, but someone's. And maybe he needs to grieve the death of his relationship with Sam first, maybe then this longing for violence will end. He knows it probably won't.

The Mark burns deeper. Everything burns deeper. Especially the yearning for morbid events with gruesome ends, and the masochistic taste in his mouth. He's angry, but he's not sure why. Probably just angry with himself. Everyone knows Dean Winchester is a fuck up, after all.

He retreats to his bedroom for the night, and almost half-wishes he won't wake up in the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

Today's memory is a real kicker. It's been playing in Dean's head since he woke up to dreaming about it. Screaming about it. If this has been a few years, hell a few _months _ago, Sam probably would have knocked down the door with a loaded pistol at the sound of his brother's screams. But according to Sam they weren't really brothers so what should he expect, really? Instead, Sam ignores it, and Dean pretends not to wonder what's so important you would ignore the sound of someone's lungs blowing up in the next room over.

It feels real, sometimes. Like he's away from the bunker, back to the asylum. Back before angels and wars and the apocalypse. Before Lilith and Ruby and Lucifer. When it was Dean and Sam, reunited on the road kicking ass and taking names. It feels longer ago than it should, but at the same time, like it's really happening, when his memories come out to play.

Like now, for instance, Dean can practically sense the sensation of the barrel of a gun pressed up against his head. He can almost feel the waves of hatred coming off of Sammy, weapon in hand, moving to aim it at his chest. This is the asylum, from god knows how many years ago. Just after he'd gotten his brother back. Just before he felt like he might lose him again.

_Sam, put the gun down_

It feels like he's saying it out loud. Maybe he is. It's not like the real Sam would care anyways, probably just call him a nut job and leave. And the fake Sam, well, he's holding a gun to Dean's chest after all.

_I'm getting pretty tired of taking your orders._

Dean knows he's heard this before. Not just when this incident happened, but just a few weeks ago. When Sam told him it wasn't his responsibility to look after his baby brother any more, he said it. How he was sick of Dean always being the one to make decisions.

Dean can only ever make bad ones.

_For once in your life, just shut your mouth._

There is no tone of brotherly joking, or sarcasm in mind-Sam's voice. There isn't any in modern Sam's either, anymore. Maybe he's right, though. He should learn to shut up. Maybe then he wouldn't be lying all the time. Maybe then he wouldn't feel so guilty.

_What are you gonna do, Sam? Gun's filled with rock salt. It's not gonna kill me._

Dean flinches after he hears himself say it. He knows what's about to happen before it happens, and it's not pretty. He feels the sting rivet into his chest, right where his heart is, the rock salt blasting into his skin, digging a welt in place of where the bullet hole would be. He knows tomorrow—No, the day after this takes place, it's a memory of course— A bruise the size of a softball will form in it'll be too painful to move his left arm for weeks. But he thanks god it's not a bullet, that it hadn't been a bullet, because Dean _feels _it. He can feel the pain in his chest and the tears he's repressing, like its happening. But it can't be happening, because it already did. It doesn't keep him from questioning, though, if the last eight years have just been a horrible, horrible nightmare that he's been experiencing, when really he's just been passed out on the asylum floor because his brother _shot him. _

But he knows it's all fake. That he's hallucinating or dreaming or whatever the fuck you want to call it. Re-living, most would tell him. Re-hashing bad memories, is more like it though. Maybe next will be hell, as if he doesn't already relive that when he falls asleep every night anyways. As if he isn't living in his own personal one as he sits.

Yes, because he's sitting. In a chair in his room at the bunker. Not writhing on the ground of an abandoned mental hospital. He's alone, here, in reality. There is no ghost. There is no Sam. And Dean can't decide if he'd rather have psycho-crazy killer Sam shooting him full of salt, or no one at all. Neither of them are good options, but they're both his past, and his present. Wonder what the future's delight will be.

He tries to clutch onto this. That it's not real. But he has a hard time grasping the way the chair feels underneath his hands. He can't quite place the sound of the ticking of his wall clock that he should hear. He's too absorbed in the mental pictures playing on a loop in his own head. He's stuck until he gets through it, so that's exactly what he does.

_Sam!_

Dean pleads, but he isn't sure if that's what he'd said back then, or if he's still pleading with him now. Maybe both. _Probably _both.

_We gotta burn Ellicott's bones and all this will be over, and you'll be back to normal._

We just have to kill Abaddon, and it will all be over. They can go back to normal.

But what the fuck even is normal anymore?

_I am normal. I'm just telling the truth for the first time._

It's Sam's turn to speak again. Fake Sam, that is. And he's mocking, cruel. It makes Dean sick to his stomach, and again he's not quite sure if it's part of the memory or not.

_I mean, why are we even here? 'Cause you're following Dad's orders like a good little solider? Because you always do what he says without question? Are you that desperate for his approval?_

He hates it. He hates it when people talk about his relationship with his father that way, especially when it's Sam making the jabs. It makes him angry and unwanted. Ironically enough, like he isn't good enough. Maybe he is desperate for approval, but it's his brother's that he craves the most. Then heaven. He needs the angle to approve or they'll cast him away. Back down to the pit with his old pals and their sharp knives.

_That's the difference between you and me. I have a mind of my own._

But Dean's not so sure having a mind of your own is such a good thing. It sounds an awful like having a mind alone. Being alone. And Dean doesn't want to be alone. Not again, not ever. Desperate for approval, desperate for company.

_I'm not pathetic, like you._

Pathetic is one word for a lonely man, sitting in his bedroom with sweat pouring down his face, in line with the tears he doesn't know fall from his tightly closed eyes, because he can't know what's real and what's not. For a young guy, kicked to the floor and shot down by his own brother, because he can't and won't ever be good enough. Dean Winchester is pathetic, and Sam knows it too.

_Well, then here. Let me make it easier for you_

He says, or said, whichever's really happening, and passes his Smith & Wesson gun to his bloodthirsty brother.

_Come on. Take it. Real bullets are gonna work a hell of a lot better than rock salt. Take it!_

His heart is pounding, _was _pounding, just waiting for Sam to pull the trigger. He knows he does. He chooses not to believe he will.

_You hate me that much? You think you could kill your own brother? Then go ahead. Pull the trigger. Do it!_

His eyes narrow in on Sam's pointer finger, watching with horror and he flicks it back to press down on that little piece of metal that could have so easily ended Dean's life right then and there. He kind of sort of wishes it had.

But, instead, the gun clicks. Jammed.

Sam tried to shoot him. _Sam actually tried to kill him._

It clicks again.

_Two fucking times! _He's just as shocked the second time, but he can't let it stop him from cross-knocking Sam to the ground and pull himself up.

_Man, I'm not going to give you a loaded pistol!_

He gets lost for a second in the glare Sam sends burning into him from his spot on the ground. It makes Dean shiver, the amount of hatred held in his eyes. Actually, he's shivering everywhere. _Shaking. _Someone is shaking him.

"Dean? Dean!" A frantic voice calls, and his eyes snap open. He gasps, and chokes, because it's the same eyes staring back at him. Same eyes, different expression. Sam looks genuinely worried, _scared _even.

"What? Can't a guy nap in peace?"

"Maybe if that's what you were actually doing!" Sam explodes, now that he can see Dean's conscious and breathing, "I thought you were stopping with the lies, man!"

"I'm not lying!" Dean flies out of his chair, standing to meet his brother in the eye, "I'm sorry I get nightmares, Sam. If it helps any, I'd rather not but—"

"Don't pull guilt shit on me, okay?" Sam spits, but his face still noticeably softens at his words, "there's something seriously wrong with you," he pauses to take a breath, "isn't there?" It isn't quite posed as a question, just a statement that needs affirmation.

"Why would you even… Sam, I'm _fine_," He says in that way that lets a person know they are definitely not fine.

"Then what's with the… the… drinking and the nightmares and the yelling? You're just not the _same, _Dean. You've started getting kicks out of killing, and you had some serious fun with torturing that vamp last week… It's just not normal, you now?" He's using the exasperated 'I'm just trying to understand' voice Dean knows he only uses when he's trying to get him to crack and spill information. Not this time.

"I guess I'm not used to my family telling me they don't trust me."

A moment of silence falls over them as the low-blow comment sinks in the air. Sam's voice comes back hard and cold, unforgiving in the worst of ways.

"You caused that, not me. _You _made the wrong decision, and _you _destroyed our trust so don't fire that shit at me."

"You're just— You're—" Dean struggles to find the right words, "You're just a huge-ass hypocrite!" He laughs humorlessly, "Do I have to remind you about everything you were crying about at the end of the trials, Sam?"

"Don't." Sam warns, but Dean's already saying.

"Ruby, and the demon blood, and the goddamn apocalypse. Taking me away from Lisa and Ben after lying to me for a year. _Leaving me in purgatory. _And then ditching my best friend there after I send him to rescue _you! _Yeah, Benny, remember him?"

"We've talked about this, dammit! You're the one who started the fucking end of the world with your 'righteous man will fall' thing. Or did you forget that you were too weak to not start torturing people? And If I remember correctly, that whole year and a half you were with Lisa I was soulless, because I jumped into the pit to save your ass! And I'm sorry I decided I wanted a normal life while you and Cas went vacationing to the Hunger Games arena, but it's not my fault you got sucked in with a Leviathan and became all buddy-buddy with a blood sucking son of a—"

"Boys." Castiel's sudden interjection stops Sam from saying something he knows he would have regretted tomorrow morning when there was an icepack pressed against the spot dean would have chosen to ram his fist into.

"Hey Cas," Dean smiles sarcastically, "you know, I would really appreciate it if you could exit the room so I can rip his fucking lungs out!"

"He needs those to breathe, does he not? I think it'd be unwise to—"

"Dammit Cas!" Dean yells, "Flutter away, we're dealing with something here!"

"Indeed, you are," Cas nods grimly, "I can see the Mark is emitting it's hallucination stages. And," He presses his hand up to Dean's forehead, "You're running a fever. Why haven't you called? I would have come with your prayer. The war in heaven—"

"Is way more important than my health habits so if you could go back to playing sergeant…"

"I'd really appreciate it if you weren't cutting me off every second. You know I dislike people who interrupt me when I have important information."

"And I hate it when people leave me out of conversations about my brother's heath so…" Sam rolls his eyes, looking at the angel for some insight. Instead, he gets one of those head-tilted, squinty looks, like Castiel's peering into your soul.

"Yet, in this moment, can you really afford to call him your brother after everything you've just said?"

Castiel's voice has never sounded so cold.

"Cas, I—"

"He is not in his right mind, Sam."

"Hey!" Dean objects, but is disregarded.

"He's feverish and slightly delusional, and extremely confused. He doesn't know what he's saying, and if he does, then it's the first time in a long time that he's actually spoken his mind. You are one hundred percent conscious, and responsible for your own actions. Actually I came here because I just wanted to inform you that any and every awful thing anyone he cares about has ever said to him is currently replaying on a loop in his head and there's a hell of a lot of you on that track. You may have even just added another memory to the long list of self-loathing moments throughout his life. He is just starting to go through something so emotionally and physically draining, that there's a high probability of loss in his mental heath as well as permanent physical injury. You're only making it worse by saying what you have been. He has made mistakes and so have you, but now is not the time to go duking it out with him over a petty argument. Put your issues aside, or I'll have to push you aside in order to save him. Finally, think before you speak."

No one says anything, not at first. Castiel's words loom over everyone like a weight. Both Sam and Dean get two different messages.

Sam, you're being a dick and

Dean, you're dying.

"Hey, woah, woah. No one needs to be saved here. I'm…"

"If you say fine I am throwing you back into the pits of hell myself," Cas says with such seriousness, Dean can't tell if he means it as an expression or not.

"Cas…" Sam trails, guiltily, but he's not in the mood to hear it.

"Get him in bed, I'll get the water. He'll be suffering dehydration symptoms shorty. I don't know much about the Mark, but I know one thing. If he spirals out of control, people will die. I can't guarantee it won't be him. Or you."


	3. Chapter 3

The pain is killing him. Maybe even literally.

He can feel it, even before he opens his eyes, pulsing at the front of his brain against his skull. His eyes flicker open fast, still beating red around the edges in sync with his heart. The first thing he thinks is _Ow. _And the second thing he thinks is _how the fuck did I even get here? _

It's the guest room of the bunker, with its still-barren walls and no sign of someone living in it. Cas comes to stay in it sometimes, but a bedroom gets rather pointless for someone who doesn't need to sleep. It's something he had always used for privacy. It didn't really serve that purpose either, though, because if he decided he wanted to stay in the bunker, he usually tried to be around the boys as much as possible. Why else would he agree to take the room, other than it being right near Dean's? He smiles at the thought of someone wanting to be close to him, but it fades quickly into doubt because who would actually want to be close to Dean Winchester?

Grunting, he tries to lift himself up, only to realize he can't move. And he tries not to panic but _holy fuck he can't move! _He struggles through the weight of his own body, too heavy and numb to do much more than lift his legs up a half a centimeter from the bed he's lying in. Looking down at himself, his eyes lock on the blood stained bandages wrapped neatly around both of his hands. They sting, almost as much as it does to move.

"Sam!" He calls, "Cas!"

The angel is there almost immediately.

"Yes?"

"I can't— Why can't I move? Why can't I _move?_" The utter terror reaches his eyes in a way that makes Castiel emit waves of worry and guilt.

"I am sorry, Dean," He says, hanging his head, and the dread in Dean's stomach multiples.

"What did you do?" He grunts out painfully, it's even difficult to speak. Castiel doesn't answer him, and the dread drifts quickly into a pleading anger, "Dammit, Cas! I'm fucking paralyzed here, what did you do?"

"You really don't remember?" The shock in his voice makes Dean shutter. He doesn't know how to answer a question like that.

"What?"

Cas doesn't answer him at first, but squints and tilts his head, looking straight through him. After a second of analyzing, he nods and straightens up with a grim expression playing on his face.

"I took you to your bed to rest," his blue eyes shine solemnly, "But you refused. More than refused, really. You completely lashed out on me... Dean, you were harboring a fever of nearly a hundred and three degrees, so I do not want you to think you were responsible for what happened. I understand you were not thinking straight and—"

"Cas, what did I do?" Dean sounds frail and nervous. Hell, he's extremely nervous. The tone Castiel is speaking with isn't one you ever want to hear from the ones you love.

"There was a lot of yelling," Cas explains cautiously, gauging his emotions before continuing, "I was just attempting to get some fluids into your system. You were severely dehydrated. You know how humans get, when they're ill and lacking the proper resources to—"

"Stop beating around the bush and tell me."

"There is no bush…" he starts, confused, before catching on with one look of Dean's glare, "I'm sorry. You want the rest of the story. Yes. See, I handed you the water, hoping maybe you would relax if I didn't try to force feed it to you. But you crushed it. With your hands. I had Sam clean it up while I went to get bandages, but you were so _angry. _You just kept screaming at me to not be such a, what was it? 'Over protective prick' I think you said, but that's just keeping it PG. There were plenty of other foul nicknames you took liking to using."

He looks so distant, just remembering last night. And Dean's stomach is dropping with every word he says. It's starting to come back to him, little shards of harsh words and violence. The way glass feels crushing under your fists, cutting your palms and shattering red to the floor.

"You… you threatened to stab me with a glass shard. You _tried _to, Dean .If Sam hadn't pulled out that sedative I don't know what would have happened. Maybe you would have given yourself an aneurism. Or maybe you would've gotten ahold of an angel blade and—" He can't even finish the sentence, and Dean's eyes start to sting more than his hands, "This isn't normal. You know this is not average human behavior. You're different now. You are too angry and too old for your years. You've been through hell, quite literally, and came out looking better than you do now.

"I…" Dean doesn't even know where to start. His mind is too hazy, and he feels too guilty to think straight, "I didn't hurt anyone, did I?"

Cas just looks away, almost sheepishly, "No."

"You suck ass at lying," he means for it to sound snarky, but it falls flat. He's too sad, too, to even make witty comments anymore.

"You nicked me a few times with your little shard-swinging escapade, I suppose, but I healed instantly. This Grace inside of me may not be my own, but it can still protect me."

"It shouldn't have to protect you from _me _though." Dean's voice is barely audible. He feels like, for lack of a better word, shit. Attacking his best friend, and his brother, in one night? Having to be _sedated _because he can't control himself? Not even being able to remember it? Maybe he really is losing his mind.

But, at the same time, you can't lose what you never had.

"Is Sam pissed?" Is the second question to come from his mouth. It hangs over them like a weight about to drop down and crush him. Of course he knows the answer.

"He is not happy," Castiel admits right away. There's not use in hiding, because Sam's surely not going to when he comes in later anyways, "I sent him to do some research while I tended to your wounds every so often."

Dean chooses to ignore the wound-tending questions for the moment.

"I remember the things I said, Cas. They're… inexcusable."

"If I remember correctly, he was not extremely mature either, and he was not trying to walk around with a raging fever and mental incapability, though."

"Hold up, mental what?"

The silence is awkward, but not tense as Cas tries to pick and choose the right words that will not send him off on another rampage, rambling on about how he's not some crazy dude who belongs in a hospital, even if he very well should be in one anyways.

"The mark is effecting how you perceive everything," He says slowly, "It's not you so much as side effects. The fever and the breakdowns and the memories. It's the Mark trying to… Well, I'm not sure exactly what's attempting to do with you, but it is not very pleasant. You can't possibly be in control of all of your emotions and your thoughts, which makes you mentally incapable."

"So you think I'm crazy?"

"That's not what I said."

"It's okay, man, I'm pretty sure I'm crazy too." Dean looks like he'll start crying any second now. Emotions are pouring out of him, even though he tries to laugh it off. Cas can see the worry and desperation behind the sarcastic joke. Dean is afraid.

And that's when Castiel knows. This is bad, really, really bad. Because a Winchester never admits, Dean least of all. If he's showing just the slightest hint of his own worried mind, it has to be serious. He has to be dying. Maybe he is dying. Cas isn't so sure he want to know if he is or not anymore. He doesn't even want to consider it a possibility. Because it's not. Dean can't die. Who would save people? Who would kill the monsters and stop the apocalypses and be the hero?

Sam? No. As much as Castiel loves Sam, he knows what would happen soon after Dean's— extremely hypothetical— demise. Sam would meet a girl, fall in love with the first one he'd pick out from the street. And he would get married and pop out a few children, go back to school, or get a job. He would forget the best he could about his brother and Castiel and the whole damn Supernatural world. It wasn't a bad thing to want a family. Cas can't blame him for that part of him, and he know Dean doesn't either, but that doesn't stop him from wishing Sam wouldn't fantasize about it. He wishes Sam could remember what it was like to have his older brother cook him dinner every night, and read him bed time stories.

Cas can never forget what Dean told him about the time Sam asked 'daddy' to pass the salt and both Dean and John reached for it. It's too bad Sam has.

"You will be fine." He says, as reassuringly as he can manage. The only thing is, he's not sure who he's trying to convince. Dean, or himself. Both, he decides. The words are meant for the both of them, because they both need to hear it to keep what's left of their dwindling sanity.

"Why does he hate me?" Dean murmurs, his eyes drooping. Castiel knows it's just his fever voicing the passing thoughts coming through to his head, but it doesn't keep his heart from hurting.

"Sam doesn't hate you. He's just upset."

Dean doesn't answer. Cas waits until he's sure the fragile human is asleep before leaving again. There's no sense in watching him in his slumber when there's research to be done. He needs to figure this out before it gets worse. Everything in their lives always get worse.

"How is he?" Sam asks, and Cas can't help but wonder if the concern is genuine. He mentally slaps himself. Of course it's genuine. It's his brother in there, for god's sake.

"He woke up," he nods, "Doesn't remember a thing from last night's event."

"How can he not _remember?" _Sam spits, "He tore up his own fucking bedroom, not to mention his hands and our sanity."

"This has nothing to do with us, and he is not at fault for any of it."

"That's like saying Norman Bates isn't responsible for murder because he doesn't remember murdering his victims afterwards."

"I don't quite understand that reference, but I am absolutely sure that it's not one I would agree with you on." Instead of letting the petty argument continue, Castiel changes the subject to a lighter topic. He needs to cut Sam some slack. His brother is potentially dying after all. "Did you happen to find anything?"

"Nothing useful."

"Anything may become useful in the future, Samuel."

"Don't call me that. Besides, most of what I did was watch a series of low budget movies about satan, none of which seemed remotely like this situation, and made me want a rusty spoon to gauge my eyes out with. I reread most of every version of the Cain and Abel stories in the bible… None of them really fit completely in sync with what Dean had to say, but then again, the bible never included that maybe Cain wasn't such a bad guy after all. He doesn't sound so bad to me."

"Well, neither does diving into a lake, until you meet the rocks at the bottom."

"You saying something's not right with the story?"

"I'm saying that nothing appears to be right in general, at the moment."

Sam sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, the epitome of and over worked, stressed, and concerned brother. Cas wishes Dean could see him like this, endlessly working to find a cure to save him. But whether it be Sam's stubbornness, or his unnegotiable idea that Dean screwed up permanently, Sam never shows him this side anymore. And Dean thinks he hates him because of it.

"Did he say anything to you?"" distressed apprehension seeps into Sam's voice, "anything at all?"

Castiel looks down for a moment, debating whether or not to tell him.

"He thinks… you hate him."

It takes just a millisecond too long for him to process the words Cas says. It doesn't click right away, how Dean can think something like that, but once it does the familiar ache in his chest pulses through his heart.

"_What_?" Sam sounds broken.

"He thinks you resent him for, well, everything he has ever done in his lifetime. We talked a bit, but it was mostly just me, recalling what's happened so far. He was a bit out of it for most of the conversation, but Sam, I think he genuinely believes that you don't love him anymore."

The disappointed anger on Sam's face worries him, but he doesn't say anything as Sam calmly and quietly gets up from his chair ad heads to where Dean lies sleeping. There is not the yelling Castiel expects. There is no breaking of lamps or fists punching holes in the wall. For once, there is just silence as Sam sits down in the chair near the bed, takes his brothers hand, and doesn't let go.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean is more than confused when he wakes up. He can sense someone in the room with him, a skill learned after months of training with his father when he was ten years old, just in case a predator ever snuck up on him and Sam while they were sleeping. Body tense, he keeps his eyes shut, trying his best not to show any indication of consciousness. When he feels the hand on his, he almost loses his cover. His first thought is that maybe, just maybe, it's a reaper finally getting the best of him. If he gets lucky enough, maybe it'll be Tessa sitting at the side of his bed, and he'll at least have someone to chat with on his way up to the gates of heaven. If he's even going to heaven, that is.

His second thought is that it can't be Tessa, or any reaper for that matter. Because people who die, haven't been going anywhere. And he's definitely not in the veil in between, like Kevin. Which means he's still breathing. Dean can't decide if that's a good thing or not.

He lets his eyes slowly flicker open, immediately shutting them as the light above him burns out his irises.

"Gah!" He throws his free arm over his face, waiting a few seconds before readjusting and opening his eyes for a second try. He can move better now, the sedative wearing off of his system, after too many long hours of exhaustion and penalization that he brought on himself.

"You okay?" It's not the deep voice of an angel he was expecting.

"Sam?" Dean looks over, making eye contact with his brother.

"The one and only. Do you need anything? Water? I was cooking earlier, but I'm not sure what your symptoms are. I mean, I think you can eat but we should play it safe. I can get you, like, a book or something though? Unless you want to sleep," Sam's rambling stops, and he takes a deep breath, like he's remembering not to suffocate Dean with so many pieces of information all at once, "How're you holding up, man?"

Dean opens his mouth to speak, and frowns instead. Did he hit his head on the bedpost instead of the pillow when he went back to sleep? It almost sounds like Sam _cares. _

"I, uh, I don't know?" It comes out like a question.

"Well that's not very reassuring."

"Neither is your sudden change of mood," Dean grumbles, looking down at the bed sheets. He's gotta get out of this damn bed before Sam labels him as someone too weak to fight and hold his own.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam's tone isn't offended, but confused.

"I mean, you were pissed when I fell asleep and now you're being all mother-hen. So I'm dying, right? You wouldn't be making amends if you actually thought I might get out of this alive."

"I'm not allowed to be worried about my brother?"

"No," Dean mutters, "You're not. If you're going to move on from our argument so easily, then one of us has to be dying. And you aren't the one on their deathbed, Sam. So tell me, what is it this time? Obviously something Mark-related, but there's more, isn't there?"

Sam looks down in defeat, and Dean has to swallow the fear multiplying through his whole body._ Act tough, and don't let Sam see the panic or he won't tell you. _

"We… We haven't figured it out yet," He admits, but puts emphasis on the word _yet. _Like they have a shot at figuring it out at all, "You probably aren't dying though. You're just a little… unstable. Nothing completely fatal as of now."

"As of now?" Dean yells, "What does that mean? I'm not dying _yet?" _

"Don't say it like it's a bad thing. You're not dying."

"Yet."

"Ever. We'll figure it out, okay? Me and Cas got this. You just have to stay here and—"

"Try not to commit mass murder because I'm too unstable to be let out of your sight."

Neither of them say anything else after that. They stare each other down, unsure who should speak next. Because Dean's right. They can't let him out of their sight. For god's sake, he tried to stab his best friend.

"Just be lucky Bobby's house burned down, and you never had to spend a night in the panic room," Sam spits after a moment, his words coming out much harsher than he meant them to. He tries to yank them back into his mouth, but it's too late. He already said them. No wonder Dean thinks he hates him.

"I'm sorry." Dean's voice is practically a whisper, guilt gnawing out his stomach from the inside out. Images of Sam flicker through his head, screams erupting from the panic room, suffering from withdrawal of the demon blood that Dean couldn't protect him from, no matter how many times he'd tried. He can see it now, like he's actually there, his brother's body twitching and shaking, flying around the room and an inhumane pace. Trying to tie him down with Bobby, because he just wasn't strong enough to help Sam himself. He feels his own body jerk, and he isn't in the guest room anymore.

He wishes he could go back though. He really, really wishes he could be anywhere but here. Instead, he's standing outside of the locked panic room door, listening to a younger, frantic-looking Sam.

_Okay. Let me out. This is not funny._

He closes his eyes for a minute, hoping that when he opens them, he'll be back in his bed. It isn't real, he tries to remind himself that none of this is real. But it used to be, and it sure as hell feels like it is.

_Dean, come on. This is crazy._

He remembers this with so much detail. This is the moment he thought he'd lost his brother forever. That Sam had been replaced with too much demon and not enough human. So him and Bobby did what they thought they had to do. They locked him up to dry out from all the blood he'd been drinking, unprepared for how Sam would react.

_Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have lied to you. Just open the door._

The pleading in his voice, the desperation, makes Dean want to run back over to the door and flip the hatch, to let his baby brother out and hug him so tight he can't breathe. But he doesn't, because he knows that it's something no one can afford for him to do. Sam needs to get better. He's sick, and he needs to get better.

Dean tries to remind himself that he will, that he already _did. _That Sam, the real life, non-imaginary, present-day Sam is hardly effected by what happens today in his memory. That Sam doesn't suffer with his addictions so much anymore. Sure, there are days he wakes up wanting the drug he was addicted to for so long, but that's the same as all recovered heroin addicts. Sam gets better. But from where Dean stands now, in Bobby's cold basement, it doesn't seem like he ever will.

_I'm not some junkie. _

But it takes one to know one. Sam is addicted to demon blood, just like Dean is addicted to pain. He's a masochist. He has to be, for his own mind to let him relive this. Why the hell would someone ever want to relive the moment they betrayed their family and locked them away to detox themselves?

_You're actually trying to twist this into some kind of ridiculous drug intervention? Dean, I'm not drinking the demon blood for kicks. I'm getting strong enough to kill Lilith._

Lilith. Just her name makes Dean's stomach churn. This was before either of them knew. She was the last seal that would both start and end it all. Her death, to end the world. Her death, to end his relationship with Sam. Because Sam goes to hell, and nothing's the same after he comes back with no soul. Dean gets a taste at family life. Sam gets a taste of bitterness, and even when his soul is returned, everything goes to shit.

Dean tries to warn him, he tries to open his mouth and tell Sam about Lilith and the seals and the apocalypse. He tries, but different words flow from his mouth instead.

_Strong? This is about as far away from strong as you can get. Try weak. Try desperate. Pathetic._

For a second, Dean can't tell if he's talking about his brother, or himself.

_Killing Lilith is what matters. Or are you so busy being self-righteous you forgot about her?_

Sam thinks he's self-righteous? More like self conscious. He feels like a preteen girl about to go to the dance with zits on her face in front of her crush. Ashamed of the way she looks, afraid no one will think she's pretty enough.

Dean's afraid that he'll never be good enough.

The next couple of words they exchange passes by in a blur, reminding Dean that it's only a memory. But it still doesn't feel like '_only' _anything. It feels important. Before he realizes what he's doing, he's turning on his heel to walk away from the door.

_Dean, look—no, wait—_

Sammy begs. He turns around for a second, meeting Sam's hopeful face as he does it, but he can't bear to look at his brother, knowing what he's doing to him. With a flick of his wrist, he shuts the window cover that lets him see Sam. He closes his eyes to keep the tears from falling out, pressure building in his chest painfully, and sighs.

_Come back here. Dean! Let me out of here! Dean! Let me out of here! Let me out! Dean!_

But he just has to keep walking. That's what Dean always does when shit gets tough. He walks away. He shouldn't, and he's a dick and a coward for it, but that's what he does. And he can hear Sam calling him out on it even when he reaches the top of the stairs.

_S'ok, boy. It's not anyone's damn fault but his that he's in there. _

Bobby puts a hand on his shoulder, and Dean looks up with relief. It's so good, to see Bobby after so long. Even under the circumstances that Sam's practically being tortured below their feet, and none of this is actually real, it's nice to see the man he considered family. Until he remembers that Bobby's death was pretty much his fault, too, and can't look him properly in the eyes. He tries to apologize for what he knows is in their future. For the bullet put in the hunter's head by Dick Roman. But instead,

_I know, Bobby. _

Are the only three words that come out. He wishes he could break script for just a second, but he knows it's impossible. Everything he wants is impossible to have. He should be used to it by now.

Both of them can hear the sound of Sam's fists hitting the iron walls of the room downstairs.

_Guys! Get down here! Something's coming!_

And Dean really, really wants to go down there and help him, to hold him and tell him that whatever he's seeing isn't real but he can't. Sam needs to get it out of his system. The doors need to stay locked.

_Don't. No, no, don't. Don't, don't. No—stop! Stop! Alastair—please. Please._

He wants to scream. Scream for his brother, who's stuck down there. Scream for himself, who had to face the real Alistair every day for forty years in hell. Scream, just to fucking scream. He's helpless. He can't do shit. Sam may be the one locked up, but Dean's the one who's stuck.

He listens to the blood curdling screams, and has to cover his ears. _Torture. _Sam is being _tortured _by his own mind. Somehow, that sounds pretty god damned familiar with what's going on now, back in the real world.

_No. No. God, no! Please! Please, please. God! Stop! Stop!_

Not-dead Bobby pours Dean a glass of whiskey, and even his drink feels utterly real to him. It's eerie, the way the alcohol is burning his throat, as if he's actually drinking it. Maybe he is. He's not sure of anything anymore.

_How long is this gonna go on?_

He asks, without having to think about asking it, and already knowing what his reply will be before it comes.

_Here, let me look it up in my demon-detox manual. Oh wait. No one ever wrote one. No telling how long it'll take. Hell, or if Sam will even live through it._

The sarcasm offends Dean more that it normally would have, and the last comment about Sam's death gives him guilt-filled chills that he can't control. The screaming doesn't stop, but Dean's heart feels like it might.

Time blurs by again, and the next lucid thing Dean hears is Sam.

_Mom._

Dean flinches. Sam's hallucinations are starting to make his skin crawl.

_You're disappointed. You never thought I'd turn out this way. I'm a piss-poor excuse for a son. Your heart is broken. Am I close?_

Only if the piss poor excuse for a son is Dean. Sam's imaginary-mommy must have said something he wasn't expecting because the next thing Dean hears Sam utter is

_But—but Dean—_

Dean has never wished to know what's going inside Sam's head more than in this moment. He wants to know, needs to know what 'mom' is saying to him. Probably nothing good. She's down there, encouraging him to continue with the blood to stop Lilith, assuring him he's doing nothing wrong. But he is. He's so damn wrong.

_What's in me, Mom, it's— What if it's stronger than me? Look at me. What if Dean's right?_

He doesn't want to be right. Sam isn't evil. Sam could never be evil. Even without a soul, he at least had the decency to pretend to care, most of the time. Sam wasn't evil, no, but Dean, well… he might be. He did try to stab Cas after all.

_Even if it kills me _

He hears from downstairs, in an unnerving monotone voice. Dean's not so sure what imaginary mom said to make him talk about death, but it makes him want to vomit. Actually, he might vomit.

So, Dean goes outside. Not for a breather, not to avoid puking on Bobby's rug. He goes outside and he screams to the heavens. To Cas, specifically. He yells, and threatens, and begs. He cries. No one comes. His lungs hurt from all the yelling, until finally, he whispers

_Please. _

The familiar little whoosh of Castiel's arrival floats through the air. This is pre-leviathan Cas. Pre-Purgatory Cas. Cas before he was Dean's best friend. The sight of him makes Dean step backwards. There is not as much humane understanding in his eyes. He has less sympathy. He still cares, it's obvious, but it's back in a time where he wasn't allowed to show emotion, so different from the worried little angel who carried him to the guest bedroom and bandaged the cuts on his hands after he nearly took an arm off with a shard of glass.

_Well, it's about time. I've been screaming myself hoarse out here for about two and a half hours now._

He says it, because that's what he said when this happened the first time. But what he really wants to say is "I miss the real you back at the bunker, and you have to wake me up from this fucking mess."

They bicker about Illinois for a bit, tedious conversation that Dean wishes they'd just skip over. The sooner the memory ends, the sooner he'll wake up. At least, he thinks he'll wake up. If he doesn't…

_Dean, I can't. I'm sorry._

Cas says, after Dean pushes too hard on him for details about his feathery-assed successors.

_ Get to the reason you really called me. It's about Sam, right?_

Of course it's about Sam, Dean rolls his mental eyes, when is it not about Sam? All he ever does is take care of Sam.

_Can he do it? Kill Lilith, stop the apocalypse?_

No, but he can certainly kill Lilith and start the whole damn parade of demons. He wishes his past self could just man the fuck up and learn the whole truth, realize that Castiel is about to walk downstairs and release Sam, because that's what his boss wants. At the same time, he wants past-Dean to understand why Cas did it.

He had to. Like when dad asked him to do things, things he didn't want to do. Things that hurt people, monsters that hadn't done anything wrong and weren't really monsters at all. He had to kill them, like Cas had to unlock the panic room. Of course, killing monsters didn't start the apocalypse, but Castiel didn't know any better than him or Sam did. He was doing the job he had to do. Dean understands it now, but he didn't then. By the same time the next day, Dean will hate him.

_Consuming the amount of blood it would take to kill Lilith would change your brother forever. Most likely, he would become the next creature that you would feel compelled to kill. There's no reason this would have to come to pass, Dean. We believe it's you, Dean, not your brother. The only question for us is whether you're willing to accept it. Stand up and accept your role. You are the one who will stop it._

Playing your roles, like Gabriel said. Accepting fate, the great plan for the universe. Dean idly wonders if he should have just let Michael have him. Then, maybe he's be dead and the world would be shot, but at least he wouldn't have to relive every bad moment of his fucking life on a daily basis. Maybe, it would have been easier to give up.

It's too late now.

_If I do this, Sammy doesn't have to?_

If you do this, Dean tries to tell himself, Sam is still going to leave the panic room and kill Lilith. He's still going to start the apocalypse, and a few years down the line, you'll still be just as fucked as you feel right in this moment. His past self doesn't listen. Dean knows he wouldn't have anyways.

_If it gives you comfort to see it that way._

Castiel sounds tired, like he's so completely done with Dean's shit, and has better things he could be doing. It reopens so many awful things Dean has thought of him over the years, and he tries to focus on the real one who is, guaranteed, freaking out over him in the bunker, frantically begging him to wake up. He wonders if he's just passed out, or if he's having a seizure. If his real eyes are opened or closed. If he's alive, or if this is just another sick twisted version of hell he gets to experience before Alistair arrives for his first torturing session of the day. But it doesn't really matter. No matter what's happening out there, he's still in here, and he can't do anything about it.

_God, you're a dick these days._

Dean has never missed his Cas more than he does right here. He's never wanted to have a nice little talk about a movie Cas has never seen and watch that confused expression play out hysterically on his face. Castiel isn't joking around right now, he's getting ready to betray him.

_You give yourself over wholly to the service of God and his angels?_

He's still not sure if he made the right decision then, but he still says it because that's what has to happen.

_I give myself over wholly to serve God and you guys._

It feels like signing away his soul, only without the life perks that come with it before hell. Trapped in an angelic contract, forever. But that's what happened, and that's what's happening.

_Bobby! Dean! Help! Hey! Hey! Guys! Guys! Help! Dean!_

Suddenly, he's not outside with Castiel anymore. He's in Bobby's living room, back to the screaming and pleading of Sam in the basement.

_Correct me if I'm wrong, but you willingly signed up to be the angels' bitch?_

Bobby spits, and Dean glares, not quite a hundred percent sure if it's him or part of the memory that's glaring.

_What other option do I have? It's either trust the angels or let Sammy trust a demon?_

They're both expecting Sam to scream again, on cue, but nothing happens. Dean's blood turns to ice water. He doesn't want to relive this part. Any other part but this. He tries to force himself not to move, not to say a word, but he can't stop his past.

_You hear that?_

He hears in his own voice, despite his will not to.

_Yeah, that's a little too much nothing._

He attempts weakly one last time to stop the clunking of his legs down the basement stairs, but he already knows what the outcome will be. He sees Sam, laying on the floor through the slit in the panic room door, shaking and jerking around, seizures overtaking his body. Part of him wonders if that's what Dean himself really looks like in the bunker right now. He really hopes not.

_What if he's faking?_

Old-Dean asks, and real Dean wants to shoot himself in the head for being such a dumbass. His brother's having a fucking seizure for god's sake. Now is totally not the time to question his honesty.

Suddenly, Sam's lifted from the ground and slammed into a wall by some invisible force. Dean thinks he might puke for the second time in a night. He really doesn't want to see Sam like this. Then again, he doesn't want anything he's gotten tonight.

Finally, the old him catches up with his thoughts, and slams open the panic room door with so much force, that if it wasn't built to withstand monsters, it would've fallen off the hinges right then and there. Sam's body, banging against the wall, wrenches against him as he tries to keep him still. His head keeps hitting the iron, with too much force. Enough to make Dean feel like his own head hurts with every sickening thump against the wall. He wants to cry, just helplessly waiting for his fit to stop. He isn't strong enough to make him still, or powerful enough to make it stop. Dean will never be enough. After too many long seconds of trying to control his brother's raging body, Bobby helps him pin Sam to the cot.

_We're gonna have to tie him down for his own safety…Dean? You with me? Dean! Come on, Before he has another fit._

He mentally curses himself out for being so selfish that he was too focused on himself to help properly.

_Yeah, yeah. Let's just get it over with._

And it's funny, because Dean's been begging to get it over with since he got here. The house is silent for a while, but the second Sam wakes up, Dean know shit's going on down there. Sam's talking to him, but he isn't down there.

Sam's _hallucinating_ that Dean's talking to him, telling him he's not good enough, when in reality it's Dean who isn't good. The thought of Sam hallucination something like that makes his gut lurch in sickness.

_Just leave me alone. No. You're wrong, Dean. Stop. Stop it!_

And no one knows it, but it's in that moment Dean starts to cry. Bobby's out in a different room somewhere, getting some book he thinks will help. Dean is alone, more so than ever, and he loses it. Every ounce of dignity he has left, drained away with the realization that it's the thought of him that comes to Sam in his darkest times. That Sam would, and could, ever believe Dean would want hurt him like that. To Sam, Dean belongs in the same category as Alistair and the twisted memory of their dead mother. Dean is one of Sam's worst nightmares.

_Shut up! Just—shut. The hell. Up. Dean, no. Don't say that to me. Don't you say that to me._

But the real Dean is upstairs, silent except for the sound of his trembling sobs and shaking frame. Hot tears pour down his face, trying his best not to alarm Bobby in the other room. Every time he tries to clean himself up, he just sobs harder. It's the worst kind of crying, when you're only doing it because you can't do anything else. Old Dean does it because he thinks he's a fuck up. The real Dean does it because he knows he really is.

_Dean!_

At first he thinks it's Sam again, downstairs.

_Dean! What's happening? Dean! Talk to me… Hey!_

But this isn't part of the memory. Relief floods over him. It's Sam, the real life, honest to god Sam who is not locked in a basement, having seizures and hallucinating about how awful he is.

"Dean!" He hears Cas' voice too, and the relief multiplies. This is Cas, best friend and partner, not Castiel, angel of the lord. It's his Cas, not Uriel's or Zacharias'.

"What do we do?" Sam panics

"I don't know. Damn it, Sam, I don't know!"

Dean realizes a second too late that he can speak again, without having words forced onto him from his own history.

"I-I'm fine." He stutters out, and shoots open his eyes. He's gasping, and sweating, and there are real tears still pouring down his cheeks but he's here.

"The hell you are!" Castiel yells in a low, angry voice. There is so much fury shaking his body, that Dean flinches backwards, "Do not pull an episode like that and claim that you are fine, Dean Winchester, because nothing about you is fine and I will not stand here and make a fool out of myself trying to save you if you're too hell bent of being 'fine' to allow yourself to be saved!"

Everything is still. No one moves from their tense places. They hardly even breathe. Cas stares furiously at Dean, who stares shocked and confused back, with Sam looking back and forth between the two of them. Looking into his enraged blue eyes, Dean thanks his lucky stars that at least they're any showing emotion at all.

"I missed you," Dean says suddenly, because it's the only thing he can.

"What?" Both him and Sam ask simultaneously.

"I just— Don't go back. Either of you don't…"

He doesn't finish his sentence, because he doesn't have to.


	5. Chapter 5

Nighttime is the hardest. The darkness outside makes for a darkness inside. All Dean really wants is a drink to calm him down, but Castiel has hidden every possible form of alcohol in the bunker, including rubbing alcohol.

"I'm not taking any chances," he'd said, taking the bottle from the bathroom cabinet.

Sam has taken a liking of suffocating him, force feeding him things that he can't hold down. Dean's sick of getting sick every time he tries to eat. Most of the time, he spends his nights on the bathroom floor with the door shut and locked, because no one needs to see him like this. Nighttime is when he gets more susceptible to memories that evade him like they were yesterday. At one point, he was sure he was fourteen again, being told by dad that he would never be a good enough hunter. Dean knows he isn't, but he still doesn't want to relive it.

Worst of all, nighttime is when the anger takes over. He can't help it. It's not a good excuse, but he really has no control over it. Something little happens, like a water glass getting knocked over or a snide comment from Sam, and he loses his mind. He's starting to lose his voice from all the yelling. His throat is raw, and his hands are constantly bleeding from the number of things he's broken in his rage.

He never really can remember in the morning, which has to be the worst part of all of it. Because no one will tell him what he did.

"You got angry again," Is all Cas will say.

They're afraid, him and Sam, that if they tell Dean the awful things he's called them, and the physical trauma he's put them through, that he'll start deteriorating faster. It seems to work like ghost sickness, sinking into his bloodstream and progressively getting worse and worse until he explodes. Only instead of fear, it's self-hatred and fury threatening to destroy him.

"Why the hell is this happening?" Dean could hear Sam ask one night, when they thought he was sleeping, "Cain had to have been in better shape than this when they found him. He had his own place, a job even! Dean can't even walk in a straight line without vomiting."

"Cain had billions of years to learn control," Cas had reminded gently, "And…"

"And what?"

"And he killed. He got to take out the anger on victims. Dean isn't doing that. He can't kill, so it's just building up."

"Are you saying we should let him out on a murderous rampage?"

"No, Sam, that is not what I'm suggesting in the slightest."

"Then… Is it even safe to be with him? Are we going to die if we try to stay close to him?"

Cas hadn't had an answer, and Dean isn't sure what to do with that kind of information

Dean is bad. Dean is a killer. Dean is fucking everything up. He knows it, even if he doesn't hear it from them directly. It's the way they talk to him now, like he's made of glass. Maybe he is, because it feels like he's cracking every time he tries to move. Every word sets him off into an unwanted memory. He can't even hear the word water without feeling like he's drowning. And he is drowning, in uncontrollable emotions that overtake him. Waves of hatred and disgust wash over him every second.

He hates himself. He hates his past. He hates the world.

He can feel himself getting more and more bitter with each passing moment. He knows things are getting worse, but he's losing the will to fight it off. He almost wants to get worse, just so that he won't feel so guilty for everything anymore.

"Dean," Cas says gently, "You have to eat something."

He checks the clock. It's past five pm.

"Too late to eat," he groans, "I have to go to bed before…" He shudders. He can't live through another second of anger. He's too tired for that.

"Dean," Cas says again, "Humans die without proper nutrition."

"I'm dying anyways, so it's not like it'll matter much."

"Please don't say that," The sadness in the angel's voice agitates Dean even though he knows it's irrational to get angry over someone being sad.

"I'm not going to lie about it," he snaps, "I'm dying, get the fuck used to it."

He knows the words are cruel to say, but they slip out effortlessly from his tongue. He wants to tell Cas to sedate him before he says something he'll really regret, like he happens to do every night.

"Please, don't do this," Cas begs.

"Do what? I'm fucking sick of your nagging and pretending like you actually care."

"I _do _care, Dean."

Dean tries to stop himself before it happens, but the angry part of him shoves his conscious back at the same time he shoves Castiel against the wall. Cas fights against him, but Dean's too strong, and keeps him pinned up effortlessly

"Shut up," he spits.

"No," Cas snaps back defiantly, "You can't make me not care about you."

"Shut up," Dean repeats, if you can even call him Dean anymore. The real Dean, with feelings and regret, is trapped somewhere inside, unreachable. This Dean is cruel, blank, and cold. This Dean isn't agraid to hurt people to get what he wants.

Every time they lose the real Dean, this one takes his place. Almost like somewhere along the line, Dean drops his soul for them to endure this until he finds it again. That's probably the scariest part that he still has a soul and continues to act like this.

"No," Cas raises his eyebrows, daring him to make the next move.

"Cas!" He tightens his grip around his neck, chocking him.

"I care too much about you!" Castiel croaks out as loud as he can manage, but the grip around his neck is cutting off his much needed air supply, bruising fingerprints on the skin around his throat. They'll heal instantly, but not the wounds Cas can feel on the inside, watching Dean's internal battle flicker across his eyes. With his words, Dean stumbles backwards, and Cas takes the opportunity to strengthen his statement, "How can you not understand? You think you're unworthy to be saved, but there are two of us in this building alone working to save you, and I can guarantee there are thousands more who would drop everything and run if we asked them to."

"Cas…" Dean says again, but without rage this time, "Cas, you have to sedate me again."

"I thought that displeased you?" Cas pretends to be confused, but they both know it isn't genuine. He's only looking for a reason to avoid having to put him down. It makes them feel like he's a dying puppy. In a way, he sort of is. He's dying whether they want to acknowledge it or not.

"Sedate me," Dean repeats. It's code for 'put me out of my misery for just a few hours before I hurt one of you.'

"Okay," Cas grimly agrees, because he know exactly how to decode it. Even falling asleep, Dean looks furious.

And not that he's going to tell anyone, but Dean's dreams are angry, too. He dreams about death. Specifically his friend's. Even more specifically, he dreams about killing them. Slowly, painfully, all at once. And he can't even consider them nightmares, because he enjoys them too much.

When Dean wakes up the next time, it's Sam who gets to be on Dean duty. For once, Dean doesn't get mad at the sight of someone watching over him. It's the first time in what feels like forever that he isn't pissed at something other than himself.

"Are you..?" Sam tries to gauge the amount of fury behind Dean's motives.

"I'm me," Dean clarifies, "But I'm not sure how long that'll last."

"Cas said you made him put you out last night?"

"It's the only way I'm not going to attack one of you," Dean shrugs, trying to make it sound lighter than it is.

"You know you can only get a certain amount of doses of that stuff before you slip into a coma, right?"

What Dean doesn't say, is that maybe slipping into a coma would be better for everyone.

"Yeah," he mutters, "Why do you think I have to have so much of it?" It's supposed to sound like a joke, except it isn't funny. Not to him, and certainly not to his brother.

"Don't go there," Sam warns.

"Wasn't really going to."

They sit there for a while, just trying their best to enjoy each other's company before Dean turned from Jekyll to Hyde. They chose not to speak, knowing fully well that any tiny little microscopic thing will set him off. Sam didn't really feel like losing any limbs today.

"Would you like to try any food?" Sam flinches, worried he might have hit a nerve and annoyed him with the outrageous thought of eating something.

"Maybe something light," His response surprises Sam, but he happily calls Cas in with some chicken broth and water.

"We have crackers, too," He offers gently.

"I'm fine," Dean does his best to smile, ignoring the 'you are definitely not fine' look playing on both of their faces.

They watch him as he shovels some food into his mouth. And for a second, he actually feels _good. _For the first time in forever, he doesn't think he's about to puke at the smell of food. He isn't mad. He isn't striking out with PTSD moments or having a seizure or trying to attack his family.

And then, he's sobbing. The soup spills everywhere, burning his arms and legs, tears streaming down his face. He's not sure if he's crying because he's relieved, or because he's guilty. Both. He's crying because of both.

"I'm so sorry," he looks up at their shocked expressions, "I don't know what I'm doing."

"It is okay, Dean," Castiel leans over to comfort him, "We'll clean it up. You can stay in your own room if you'd like, we just didn't want any of your possessions to get broken… or we can just clean up in here and—"

"Don't talk to me like I'm a baby, Cas. I'm not— I don't— I just want to be okay again."

"I know."

"No, no you don't have any idea."

"What're you talking about, Dean?" Sam sounds exhausted. Dean hates knowing that he did this to him.

"You don't know what it's like, to feel yourself losing everything and not being able to do a fucking thing."

"Yes I do," Sam sighs, careful not to mention the panic room, even though it's what he's referring to.

"Not like this," Dean shakes his head, looking down. He's gotten to the point where he's just too sad to inflict the right emotion into his voice, "This isn't fixable. You can't lock me away until I get better. I'm not getting better here. And I'm not so sure I'm going to die anymore either, you know? I think I'll just get worse and worse forever. I mean, Cain's a trillion years old, and he was still living with this thing. I'll probably live for all of eternity, wishing I could just die. And maybe I would kill myself, if I didn't think I'd just be resurrected again. I don't think I could live with passing it on, even if I could find someone to take it. I wouldn't wish this on anyone, not even my worst enemy."

It's the wrong thing to say.

_I'm sorry, Dean. I wouldn't wish this upon my worst enemy._

He can hear Ruby in the back of his mind, back when she was the blonde bitch Lilith possessed.

"Oh god," he groans, "Please no. Not this."

"It's okay, Dean," He feels Sam squeeze his hand, "We're right here. It won't last too long, I promise." But the promise itself is empty. Sam has no idea what sort of memory Dean's about to enter.

Dean, however remembers it better than any other. It's the night he went to hell, thirty seconds before, to be exact.

At least this will be a short one. Excruciatingly painful, but short.

The hellhounds are growling, and he sees the first one out of the corner of his eye. Not real. It can't hurt you if it's not real. But even he know that it's just a lie he's telling himself to get it over with.

_Hellhound._

He says, his voice accepting his soon-coming fate.

_Where? _

Sam demands, as if he could actually do any good in a situation like this. It's hideous face snarls with hatred, as two more appear in the doorway.

_Three._

He corrects instead, with a sad little laugh. Death by hellhound. Fucking perfect. And even though he knows how this'll end, his heart speeds up in anxiety and he bolts from the room, into the next. The dark dust meant to keep them out is poured on the windowsills and doorframe, but he knows it won't do shit. Not with Lilith in Ruby's body. He wishes his old self wasn't so oblivious.

_How long have you been in her? _

He eventually gets to ask after a— confusing to everyone but him— exchange between the three of them where his past self finally figured out it was Lilith.

_Not long. But I like it. It's all grown up and pretty._

Her sick childish voice makes Dean shutter even now, years later. Evil, psychotic bitch. Her eyes go milky white, a color even worse than black as Sam asks the question Dean wishes he hadn't.

_And where's Ruby?_

As if she's any fucking better. She's the one who played him into going all demon crazy in a few weeks from now. She's the one who sweet talked him into starting Armageddon. Maybe Dean would have tried to warn Sam if he didn't already know it was useless from experience. He just has to let it play out. Again.

_She was a very bad girl, so I sent her far, far away._

Kind of like Sam did when he plunged her own knife into her stomach. Dean still wishes it could have been him, though, to end that bitch. He would have taken his time, too. Taking pleasure in that kind of a thought should worry him, but it doesn't.

_You know, I should have seen it before... but you all look alike to me._

And they really did, still do. They're almost as sick and twisted as Dean feels. She ignores him, though, and Dean wants to close his eyes and cover his ears, knowing what she's going to do next.

_Hello, Sam. I've wanted to meet you for a very long time. _

Her lips meet his, and she takes too much pleasure in their kiss. She's like a child, getting to pucker up with the babysitter she has a crush on. It's disgusting, violating even, the way she's looking at his baby brother.

_Your lips are soft_

She murmurs, but Sam looks like he's about to spit in her face, snapping his head to the side to looks away in disgust.

_Right, so you have me. Let my brother go._

But it's just not that easy. It never is, and Dean's almost bored. He knows how it'll all end anyways, so why prolong it?

_Silly goose. You wanna bargain, you have to have something that I want. You don't._

Part of Dean wishes he could have been the one to slice apart this one too. If she was going to die and start the apocalypse either way, then why not? Someone was bound to kill her anyway, it didn't really have to be Sam.

_So, is this your big plan, huh? Drag me to hell. Kill Sam. And then what? Become queen bitch?_

Dean smirks in his memory, just like he's smirking mentally. Some things never change, like really good comebacks.

_I don't have to answer to puppy chow._

He braces himself for what's about to come, even though his body is fighting against her invisible restraint. It's no use.

_Sic em' boys!_

She practically sings, the three words that play in his nightmares. She opens the doors in one swift motion, and he sees them, their red beady eyes trained only on him a millisecond before they lunge. Sam screams something inaudible, and Dean is thrown from the table to the floor.

_No! Stop!_

He thinks he hears, and if he wasn't screaming so loud, maybe he'd be able to hear the amount of sheer panic filling his brother's voice. Everything else is drowned out by Lilith's laughter, and the hellhound's growls as it rips off his flesh. His palpitating heart spurts open, and a jab of raging pain strikes his chest before it's turned to shreds.

He turns painfully over onto his stomach, only to be slashed again in the back. Tears spring from his eyes, crimson red blood smearing his face as he watches everything end with horror. He forgets it's only a memory, because the sudden terrifying numbness fills both his body and his mind.

_No!_

He hears Sam cry, one last time.

_Yes. _

Lilith giggles, and then there is nothing. For just a second, there is the comfort of nothing. But then he feels the first sharp hook pierce through his shoulder, and the second in his other. One through each of his hands, his stomach, tearing through his legs…

Hell. This is hell.

_Help! _

He yells in both his mind and his memory.

_No! Somebody, help! _

He feels forever suspended in the putrid air that stings his nose and throat, awaiting Alistair's very first visit of much too many. He has to get out… before…

_Sam! _

He knows no one is listening. No one can hear him from this far down, but he yells, because he doesn't know what else he can do.

"Help!" He screams, shooting his body up, sitting himself up in a bed he didn't know he was in.

"It's okay, Dean," Sam sighs, "I'm right here."

"Right here. Were you…?"

"Yeah, yeah just don't… Don't leave, okay?"

"Wouldn't dream of it."


	6. Chapter 6

"You have to sleep, Sam," Cas says for the third time of the night.

"I have to stay here," he insists, even though he knows his friend is right. He can hardly sit down without his eyelids drooping. But, in the grand scheme of things, sleep deprivation isn't exactly at the top of the list on things to worry about. Dean sleeping himself into a coma; that's where the real problem is.

"Sam, I'm not going to say it again. I'm not afraid to use the tranquillizer on you, too," Castiel threatens seriously, eyeing the silver syringe sitting on the bedside table that they had to use only a few hours ago.

"I promised him I wouldn't leave," Sam sticks by his stubbornness.

"He won't know the difference. I can wake you up before he does, and you'll be in like you've never even left."

"You're not seriously thinking I'm about to _lie _to him right now, are you?"

"If I recall correctly, we both are."

They glare at each other for a second, neither of them wanting to move further into this discussion again, but knowing they'll have to.

"That's different," Sam mumbles, looking away, "He won't take it well. You know he won't."

"Dean doesn't take news well in general. What goes on in his own mind belongs to him, not us. Can you not understand that?"

"We can't tell him, and I'm not leaving. End of discussion."

"Sam—"

"I said, end of discussion Cas!" Sam yells, standing up over four inches taller than him. The angel shrinks back.

"I'm right," he sighs, "You know that I'm right."

"Please, Man. Just leave me alone."

"I care about him just as much as you do!" Castiel fires back instead, sudden anger filling his voice, as if they haven't all had enough anger to last a lifetime.

"You will _never _care about him as much as I do," Sam grumbles viciously under his normal tone of voice in a way that would scare off even the fiercest of monsters, "He's _my_ fucking brother, not yours. So get off your holy high-horse and quit telling me you know him better than I do."

"You couldn't even _call_ him your brother until you thought he was dying!"

"That's a lie!"

"No, it's not! You were too disgusted to even _look _at him, let alone call him family!" Cas takes a daring step forward.

They stand like that, nose to nose, pressed up against each other. Neither one of them breaks eye contact, or their mood. Panting and huffing in his own fury, Sam tries to calm himself down. If Dean can do it with a fever and ancient curse of god, he can control his own emotions. Fuming, Castiel flees from the room, only to come back seconds later with a book in his hand.

"You read this," Cas accuses somewhat calmly, "You read it and you knew exactly what was going to happen to him, but you didn't tell me, and you don't think you're going to tell Dean himself despite your knowledge that he has a right to know. You kept it to yourself, because you didn't want it to be true. And tht is the most selfish, unbelievable thing you've ever done, Sam Winchester, because now there's no time to fix it."

Guilt sinks into Sam's stomach, completely obliterating the quickly building anger tensing up his rigid body. Of course Sam read the book. Of course, he knew what was wrong with his brother. Castiel is rightfully accusing him of keeping secrets, because he has been. But it's not to deceive anyone, it's to keep Dean from hurting himself with the truth.

Dean won't be able to handle it.

"Cas, man, I just—" He tries pleadingly, but Cas won't hear another word of it.

"No. You cannot talk your way out of this. I was going to let you by, to ignore the fact that you completely disregarded me and the human rights your brother deserves. I was going to put it behind me in order to fix him," he points a shaking finger at the man lying unconscious in the bed right next to where they're duking it out, "but now you've gone too far as to say you care so much about someone you were hardly talking to just last month."

Sam doesn't respond. He doesn't know how. There is no possible way to calm Cas down when he gets like this. And, this time, it's Sam's fault it happened in the first place. He just nods, trying to hide the shame shining through with his blush. Sam's lack of a proper response only seems to anger Cas more, and he glowers over at Sam crossly.

"So, are you going to sit here and waste away, or are you going to sleep and recuperate so that when I need you to do research, you'll actually do your goddamned job?"

The mere realization that Castiel, an _angel, _just said 'god damned' makes Sam nervous. He's never been so angry before, and certainly not at a Winchester.

"I'm sorry I—"he turns around to leave immediately.

"I'll bring a cot down here," Cas' voice stops him from behind before he manages to stumble out the door, "I apologize for my outburst."

When Sam turns around to face him, he sees that it's Castiel's back that's to him, his eyes trained on Dean as he hunches ever so slightly over him. He looks so much weaker than just ten seconds ago, all of the powerful wrath and hatred drained from his features. He sounds sad, so utterly unhappy, that Sam just wants to cry at the sound of his voice.

"It's okay," Sam nods, "It was my fault." It takes just a second too long for him to get a reply.

"I suppose, but it was unnecessary, and the bickering is helping no one," Cas still refuses to look behind him and meet Sam in the eyes. He's too focused on Dean's face, more peaceful in sleep than he's ever been awake. Not that Sam will ever know, but what Cas is really doing, is tracing over all of Deans features, analyzing them over and over. He's trying to memorize the way Dean looks exactly in this moment. Serene and gentle.

Cas is trying to iron in the image of his best friend, while he's still his best friend. While he's still _human. _

"We have to tell him," he whispers then, so soft he's not sure if he's been heard at all. For a split second, the horrific image of Dean's eyes filling black flashes through his mind. Sam doesn't respond, but he doesn't have to, "I'll tell him." He corrects before Sam can make any objections.

And Sam actually is about to say something, anything, to break the depression seeping into the air around him, but Cas takes in a deep, shaky breath. He exhales slowly, trying to gather himself, and when he turns around, Sam gets the answer to a question he's wanted to ask for a very long time.

Yes, Angels can cry.

A tear streak runs clean down Castiel's left cheek, leaving a crooked wet line down it. He maintains a completely blank face, despite the single tear that rolls down and drips off of his chin. His breathing is still trembling, an inner battle surging through his chest, tightening his lungs. But he won't cry like this in front of anyone, not even Sam, who could never understand the sorrow of an angel's crying. Both of them ignore his tearstained face and red eyes as he calmly leaves the room. Sam doesn't have anything left to say, and Cas chooses to refrain from any form of contact, other than brushing past the tall lanky human on his way of the door.

As promised, he comes back carrying a dark blue, musty cot from one of the old storage rooms somewhere. A plume of dust puffs into the air when he open it up and brushes it off, but to Sam, it's the most comfortable looking bed in the world. Exhaustion seeps down into his bones. Even though he feels guilty and sick, he can't help the yawn that escapes his lips.

"Sleep," Castiel nods reassuringly, "I'll wake you if he regains consciousness."

Sam can't afford to ask questions, even though there's still an uneasy feeling in his gut. Castiel still sounds hopelessly miserable, his voice a dull monotone. But Sam's just too damn tired to let himself worry. He lays down and lets his eyelids sink closed, almost resenting his human need for sleep.

Cas tries to pretend he's not as lonely as he feels. Even awake, Sam can't understand the wisdom and knowledge behind every decision Castiel makes. Of course, he doesn't have all the answers. He's far from knowing everything. But he knows, when it comes to angels and demons and Dean. He just wants to make everything right again.

At the same time, he knows what Dean will say when he tells him. Anger or no anger, he won't want to live anymore, once he finds out what's happening to him. He'll kill himself, or worse, make one of them do it when they won't let him die like that.

Cas will not let him die without his dignity.

_"I don't want to hurt someone." _Dean will say, _"Just put me out of my misery, Cas. Please." _

But Castiel's not so sure he's strong enough to do something like that. Can angels go to hell for murder? Would that even count as murder? For some things, there just aren't answers.

Kind of like how there is no easy way to tell a weakened friend that he doesn't have long before he dies. Because, yes, Dean is going to die. But his body might not. The things that make Dean, _Dean _will be gone completely in just a few weeks. Someone, some_thing, _new will take his place. Like a spirit, turned evil by time, what's left of Dean will twist. His soul will endure so much trauma, relive so many awful things, that it can't sustain its humanity.

Dean is going to die.

A demon will take his place.

But even that statement is untrue. A demon won't take over his body, it'll take over his _everything. _Demon dean? It's something straight out of his own worst nightmares. Dean will turn bitter and angry, he will resent them all, hate them all— even Cas. Without his soul, he loses the beauty that makes him a Winchester. The beauty that makes him _Dean _Winchester. Dean is dying. A stranger is forming. A demon is the mutation that will rise.

Cas watches sorrowfully as Dean twitches in his sleep, muttering unintelligible slurs that he can't decode. But he can tell by the fear in Dean's voice that this isn't a good dream. It's a nightmare, but probably not too much worse than the one they're living. He puts a cool hand on Dean's forehead, mimicking the many mothers and doctors from the TV shows and movies Dean has watched with him over their time together. He idly worries if they've already experienced the last one they'll ever see together again.

The feel of his forehead under Castiel's hand makes him wince.

"You're burning up," he murmurs, and maybe he would have been pleased with himself for using and understanding such an expression, if it were under better circumstances.

He doesn't want to leave the room for a thermometer, in case something happens and there's no one conscious in the room to help, but he has to take his temperature and make sure it isn't too high for him to survive. When he gets back, he mentally slaps himself for not getting one sooner.

_105 _the little screen reads, and Cas shakes it. That can't be right, can it? What's the highest a human can survive? No more than 107, right? So that's only two degrees off. Two measly degrees away from Dean's immediate demise. The thought makes him nauseous.

He knows it'll piss him off later, but he doesn't have time to wake up Sam and answer his many frantic questions. He has to get Dean's temperature down, and fast. He transports himself as fast as he can to the kitchen, getting a cold wet cloth from the sink. However, the second it touches his forehead, it's practically _warm. _Panicked, Cas begins filling the bathtub with water, as cold as the dial will allow. He doesn't want to put Dean's body into shock from such a fast temperature change, but being in a coma is better than being in a coffin any day of the year. He flashes back and forth from the bathroom to the kitchen, filling the tub with all of the ice he can find before it quickly runs out. He's picking up Dean before he has a chance to react.

Castiel debates taking off his clothes first, but only has a half a second to think about it before Dean's blazing skin alarms him, and he ends up just throwing him in, clothes and all. Ten seconds later, he realizes that Dean's phone was in his pocket, and that ruining his cell will probably be the next trigger to set him off on another rampage.

He can't think about that now, though, because the splash has Sam sprinting in, confusion and anxiety written all over his face.

"Oh my god," he gasps, taking it all in just as Dean gasps sharply, flailing his arms and legs. Water goes everywhere, but Cas is just relieved to see him conscious again.

"What the ever living fuck?" He gasps, trying to catch his breath, and Cas jumps from where he was kneeling by the tub to throw his arms around Dean's torso, barely caring that he's splashing himself with water cold enough to freeze lava

"You are okay now."

"Really? Are you sure I'm not gonna drown in here? Or freeze to death possibly."

"105," Cas is practically panting with relief, "Your fever peaked at 105, and rising. I had to cool you down as fast as possible. I am sorry." He stands up, straightening himself out, "Just lay there, please. For a few minutes."

"It's friggin cold!"

"_Please." _

Dean doesn't object, as Cas walks out to change his clothes. He comes back in an unfamiliar sweater, two sizes top big that looks like Nana Winchester made.

"What the hell is going on, and what the hell are you wearing?" Sam can't help but laugh at the situation. Dean is okay, for now. Cas helped, but made one hell of a mess in the process.

"I did some shopping while I was away."

"I hate to say it," Dean's teeth chatter, chopping up his wording, "but I'm almost jealous of that thing. It looks pretty damn warm from here."

"Everything is bound to appear warm from a vat of ice water, Dean," Cas nods. Dean can only manage a sarcastic smile back.

"Yes, yes it does."

They all laugh, despite Dean freezing his ass off, and Cas nearly crying in relief, and Sam groggy and confused as living hell. They laugh. And for a moment, no one cares that their world is going to shit. At least they'll be there watching it all go down.

"Team free will," Dean whispers after a while, "A dying psychopath with PTSD, an Angel living in stolen grace, and an ex-vessel for an unwanted hitchhiker. Together again."


	7. Chapter 7

"I don't know what to do anymore," Sam enters the guest bedroom, shaking his head, "We've been researching this thing for three weeks, and he's just getting weaker. Can you come hit the books with me for a sec? I don't think I can face another minute of sitting out there reading old English scrawls about Satan alone."

Cas doesn't reply, too busy just staring at a sleeping Dean to respond.

"Are you even listening? I know someone should be watching him and everything, but I really need some help, man. I'm stuck."

No response.

"Seriously, you sitting there isn't helping him! We're supposed to be searching for a cure, not just sting around waiting for…"

Sam can't finish the sentence. All he can think about is his brother staring back at him with cruel, black eyes the next time he wakes up. About not saving his soul in time, and never having the chance to talk to his real brother again. It doesn't really matters what he says, though, because no one's present enough in the conversation to hear him.

"Castiel!" Sam yells, and Cas jumps at the sound of his own name. He stands up, stress and emotion emitting from him.

"Dammit, Sam, I know! I am aware of the situation at hand, but I would appreciate fifteen seconds to think it through before I am asked of the answers we're searching for!"

"What if we don't have fifteen seconds?" Sam asks weakly, not able to inflict the right emotion into his voice. Again, Cas is rendered speechless. He has nothing to say, mostly because he's afraid of what will come out of his mouth next.

"It's this room," he mutters after a minute, "This room is quite literally driving me insane. There are too many… Senses to be used here. Bad omens, if you will. When angels are too near evil, sin, they become," he searches for the right word, "uneasy. Every instinct I possess is telling me to either fight or flee but I can't do either."

"So your spidey senses are tingling?" A groggy voice asks from beside them. Dean struggles, eyes still closed, to free himself from the sheets tangles tightly around his limbs.

"Are you referring to the film you made me watch last month about the scientifically impossible hybrid of a male and a spider?" Cas asks, only partially confused at his references this time. He smiles, but mostly just because it's nice to hear Dean make a reference at all. He's long since forgotten his sense humor. It's good, to know it hasn't been totally lost. Not yet, at least.

"Cool it with the big words," Dean mutters, "I have a headache."

"When don't you have a headache?" Sam snidely remarks, but it's not really a jab at Dean. It's directed at himself for not being able to fix it.

"You don't have to be here if you're uncomfortable, man," Dean ignores his brother to reassure Cas, "Sam's a big boy. He can take care of me just fine."

"I am more uncomfortable with that arrangement."

"And why's thatt?" Sam asks, a bit of offense seeping into his voice, "I can take care of my own brother."

"I don't deny that you can, I just—" _I just don't enjoy the idea of leaving the room and coming back to a demon in his place. _

But he can't say it, because Dean can't know. He wants to tell him, has to tell him, what will become of him, but Sam is right. Despite Dean's rights to know what's happening to him physical being, he'll try to kill himself if he find out.

Cas isn't so sure he can lose Dean like that without losing himself, too.

"Just…?" Dean prompts, not a clue of where that sentence was going. Sam, however, nods in understanding.

"I just don't enjoy reading. Researching is far less exciting than Sam made it out to be."

Either Cas is a good liar, or Dean is just believing what he wants to believe, because he doesn't call him out on his too-quick answer.

"Yeah, Sammy's a freak like that isn't he? I swear the kid had some kind of a wifi chip implanted in his brain so he could research anything anywhere with his body's own internet."

"Ha-ha, very funny."

"I know I am." There's something off-putting about Dean's smile. After going so long without seeing it, you would think everyone would be relieved to see him show anything but distress or anger. Instead, his hollow grin makes them shudder. His eyes are too empty to be genuine. He's just playing the part of a happy man.

It's this act Dean has, that goes on and on every time he says he's okay, but knows he's not. Just a ghost, a shadow of what he used to be. Sam and Cas pretend not to notice, and Dean pretends to ignore that fact that they obviously have. It's an unspoken agreement that the three of them have, not to point out how vacant Dean really is on the inside.

"What time is it?" He asks, sitting up in bed.

"Like noon. Did you want something to eat?"

Everyone in the room flinches at Sam's question. Even Sam.

The room still smells like bile and blood, from the last time Dean attempted to get some food in his system. They'd been trying to get a hold of an IV, but Dean wasn't letting them stick a needle in him until it became absolutely necessary.

Last night, it had become necessary.

"Nah, man. I think I'm good but… Do you think I could just, like, go for a walk or something? I'm getting cabin fever. This room's fucking, I don't know. It feels like a prison in here."

"You're too sick to eat, but you want to get up and test your Sea legs?" Sam scoffs.

"Sam, we are not on the sea." Cas's comment makes Dean laugh, and it's almost real enough to pass as an actual laugh. He's about to explain what having Sea legs means, but decides against it. There's no point. He gets up, throwing his legs over the side of the bed, and nearly face plants into the disgusting red carpet. A pair of arms stretch out to grab him, stopping his fall an inch before his face meets the floor.

"Saved by an angel," he rolls his eyes as Cas sets him back on his feet, "how wonderfully ironic."

His bones crack as he moves, loud and painful-sounding, even though it feels amazing to walk around after so long. His muscles are achey and sore, but no more than they would be after getting tossed around by a poltergeist for a little bit. It's almost like just another day after a rough hunt.

He wishes it were.

"You should get back in bed…."

"I'm fine, Sammy," he groans, "Stop mothering me."

Castiel refrains from asking him how he knows what mothering is, considering his lack of a mother-figure throughout his childhood. Even he knows some comments are better unsaid.

"I kind of have to 'mother' you Dean. You suck at taking care of yourself."

"No more than you."

"I beg to differ, I know when I can't handle something."

"I can handle this okay?"

"Not alone, you can't."

Cas is pretty sure they aren't talking about his walking anymore.

"Maybe if you would let me do some researching for myself, I'd catch something you haven't. Did you ever think of that?"

"Me and Cas have read the books over a thousand times. Besides, you can't even stay awake long enough to read a page of any of them."

_Please don't drag me into this_. Cas begs internally, listening to the brothers bicker. It's the only thing any of them seem to do besides cry and scream.

"I don't understand why you can't just let me take a look at a fucking book, Sam."

"You're too weak!"

But Cas knows that's a lie. Maybe he is too weak to handle information like that, but the real reason is because Sam doesn't want him to know about the slow demise of his soul. Letting Dean do some researching ensures his stumbling on information Sam doesn't want him to possess.

"I'm not a weakling, okay?" Dean exclaims pleadingly, and Sam realizes too late what he's done. Dean is gone again, replaced by his angry duplicate.

"Calm down," Sam murmurs warningly, as if it'll change anything, "Dean, man—"

"Don't tell me to calm down!" He screams, veins bulging in his neck. Castiel's sure he's about to have an aneurysm.

Cas reaches for the sedative, but Dean takes it from his hands, pointing it at him. Cas glares, his stance threatening to hurt him, even though they both know he won't.

"Not this time, you wingless asshole. I'm the one brave enough to put you out," He shakes the hand that's holding the srynge. Cas isn't even sure if that stuff would work on angels, but he isn't in the mood to figure it out. He puffs up his chest, trying to look as deadly as he can, but it only makes Dean laugh bitterly, "Oh, please. You don't have the right grace to smite me. You would need your own, and you know it. Even f you did, you wouldn't have the guts to do it."

Dean reaches his hand up, ready to stab Cas with the object in his hands. It's obvious his intent is not to put him to sleep, unless you're speaking permanently.

"I would never _smite _you," Cas says defensively, "However, I may do this."

In one quick motion, Cas jumps up, bending his arm and aiming for Dean's face. He has to squeeze his eyes shut as the sharp bone of his elbow makes contact with Dean's nose, knocking both of them to the ground. Sam stands back helplessly, inside how to pull them off of each other. Dean claws back, four of his fingernails sinking into the angel's flesh. It heals quickly, but ignites fury. Cas has his hand balled into a fist, pounding Dean's face, over and over. Dean struggles underneath him.

"I hate you," he yells, spitting blood into Cas's face, "I wish you'd stayed back in purgatory, where you belong— With the monsters."

Castiel yells something, not a words, but a loud guttural moan of anger, pressing Dean against the wall. He lets his fists beat into him, bettering his face and body. Somewhere in between pressing him against the wall, and Cas's screaming, Dean passes out.

"Cas," a hand touches his shoulder, "He's out. You can stop."

Panting and upset, he lets Dean's body crumble to the floor, stepping back in shock.

"I-I didn't mean to."

"It's not your fault," Sam reassures, lifting his brother back onto the bed.

"It's not his, either," Castiel whispers, fighting the urge to break down right then and there, "I hurt him. I can't… I'm not powerful enough to heal him. Not without my grace, my real grace. This one isn't mine, it isn't strong…"

"It's _okay," _Sam continues to soothe, insisting that Cas did nothing wrong. But he did. He hurt his best friend. His _sick _best friend. It's just not right.

"I think I broke his nose," he mumbles in monotone, "Where is the first aid kit?"

He doesn't even wait for Sam to tell him before zombie-walking out the door.

How could he do that? How could he look Dean in the eyes, pounding his teeth in? It's sick and twisted, to hurt someone you love like that, on purpose. And maybe it wasn't really Dean he'd been fighting, but Dean was still the one who would wake up in pain because of him.

If he wakes up.

A monster could take over at any time. And The last thing the real Dean would ever see, is his best friend trying to beat the shit out of him.

Sam's cleaning up Dean's face with a wet paper towel when he gets back with the tiny, plastic red and white box full of band aids and Neosporin. It's almost hypnotizing to watch, the cloth in Sam's hand wiping and erasing the trickling smears of red on Dean's face.

"Thanks," Sam sighs, taking the first aid kit from him, "There's not much in here to use really. It looks a lot worse than it is. His lip is busted, and his eye's gonna be a nice shade of purple, but he's lived though much worse."

"He shouldn't have to live though this at all."

Sam huffs sadly, pressing his lips together in a tight line.

"you can't blame yourself, you know. He was going to mame you with that thing," Sam nods to the srynge, now broken and leaking on the floor. He'll have to clean up the glass later, somehow get ahold of another one, preferably not one so ancient.

"Where are we going to find another medical instrument like that?" Cas winders out loud.

"That thing? Real easy. I think there are a few of them in the Impala. They're pretty handy if you fill them with holy water. Besides, we probably should have been using a different one anyways. We found that in one of the storage rooms in here. It's probably from the fifties."

"Will that hurt him?" Cas asks another question, "If you use one that had holy water in it?"

Sam doesn't know the answer, so he doesn't give one. It's hard to think about things like that, about having to treat Dean like something they hunt.

"Should we…" he really doesn't want to ask, but he has to, "Should we start keeping holy water and salt nearby, in case he changes?"

"No," Sam's answer is immediate, "He'll know right away."

"You can't keep it from him forever."

"Watch me."


	8. Chapter 8

**_I'm sorry for the wait, guys! On top of finals and the play I'm in coming around the corner there's been a lot of stress… I wrote this chapter in advanced so I could just post it but, of course, my computer decided to spaz out and delete my document. So…Without further ado, enjoy!_**

**_ Also Thank you if you commented to notify me that this chapter was not showing up.. there were some technical issues (cross your fingers this one loads)_**

Dean doesn't know where he is.

Not at first, at least. When he opens his eyes, he's almost sure it's another memory. He can distinguish them almost immediately from reality, now. Memories feel real, but the objects around him shine, artificially. Like they're made of plastic. And it's are to focus on detail, like reading a book title or focusing on the freckles of a passerby's face. But there are no books to be read, or people to see.

Dean is alone, and his doesn't know where he is.

The trees around him, the endless on going forest trapping him in, shine like a memory, but he can still make out every little crack in every piece of bark. The precise color of the deep green leaves is too realistic, despite their plastic-y appearance. The fog dancing across the damp, mossy ground is too tangible to just be imagined.

And he can't feel the same restrictions here. When his mind says walk, he walks. When he decides to jump, he can. He isn't forced to follow a pre-planned path. His free will is what scares him the most.

Well, that, and his lack of actually remembering this place. It can't be a memory if it never happened, and Dean's sure this has never happened. Stuck in the middle of the forest, no shirt, with blood smeared across his forehead— and he's not sure who's it is.

"Sam?" He calls, "Cas?" He tries to control the anxious hammering of his heart in his chest, but the crisp air reaching his lungs isn't helping to calm him down much. It's probably late July now… How the hell can it be so damn cold?

And why the _fuck_ doesn't he have a shirt on?

There's a rustling in the forest, but he can't tell where it's coming from or what it is. He looks down at his blood-covered hands, but there's nothing in them. He's never wanted a rifle more. If something were do attack him, he can't defend himself. He's too weak on his feet, too tired of walking.

And he's not quite sure how long he's been walking either. All the damn trees look the same to him. Hell, he might not even be going anywhere but in circles for all he knows. Has it been seconds since he woke up, or days?

He's thirsty, but not for water. All he wants is an end to his confusion. He sits down, because he feels sick, but also just to make sure he still has the choice to. Who knows when his free will is going to diminish this time?

"Cas, man, I'm praying here," he huffs, looking down and flicking a dusty-grey pebble, trying to wipe the blood from his hands that wont come clean.

"Hello? Earth to angel!" When no answer comes, Dean sighs and closes his eyes, "Castiel… I'm on my knees here. I don't know where I am and—"

The rustling is louder. It cut him off, and his eyes snap open immediately.

"Cas?" He shouts, spinning around only to be met with more trees. When he looks back, though, there's a man standing in the shadows just a few feet away. He's too tall to be Cas, but way too short to be his gigantor of a brother, "Man, thank god there's someone else out here! Right? I was starting to think I missed the apocalypse. Last man alive, lost in the woods…."

The stranger doesn't answer, and Dean begins to rethink his few steps forwards.

"Can you hear me? I need some help I'm— I think I'm lost. Can you just point me in the direction of the highway? I can just hitch hike back to…" Dean's not sure what infuriates him more, the guys lack of response, or how far away he still seems no matter how many steps Dean tries to take, "Hey, buddy, I'm talking to you!" he reaches out, suddenly close enough to grab the man by the shoulders and pull him around. The shadow disappears, and the sight of his own face makes Dean stumble backwards.

"Don't you mean you're talking to… you?" A gruff, taunting voice replies.

He looks over the man's face, his set jaw and fierce green eyes make Dean want to vomit. It's like staring in a mirror. A fun house mirror, that's just twisted enough to put an off feeling in your stomach. This man is Dean Winchester, but there's something wrong. He looks angry, for no other reason than existing, his face too pale and eyes too dull.

"I know what you're thinking," he smirks at the real Dean, "There's no way we can look that… Sickly. I hate to say it, but we do."

"We?" Dean asks with a flinch.

"I'm you, remember?"

"Not really, care to fill in the details?" He can't help but let the sarcasm slip into his voice. He's only talking to himself, after all.

"What, they haven't told you?" the twin laughs bitterly, "That's _rich! _Of course Sammy would keep it from you. He was always a bit of a hypocrite, that one."

"Don't talk about my brother like that," Dean orders threateningly.

"Our brother. He's mine too, you know. Or he…was."

"What're you talking about?" He sighs, rolling his eyes. He doesn't have time for shape shifters or robo clones. He needs to get back and…

"I'm _talking," _he interrupts Dean mid-thought, "About the night we ripped out brother dearest's little heart with our bare hands. By the looks of you, I'm guessing it was tonight."

"You're delusional," Dean spits back at himself, "I would remember doing that. I wouldn't hurt him."

"Oh, but I might." The clone winks, and when his eye flicker open, both have turned black in a flash.

Demons.

"What the hell?" He cries, faltering backwards again. He watches his double walk slowly towards him, and he realizes too late, that his inability to move has kicked in again.

"What, you don't remember me?" the sick bastard whines, "How about this: _You're gonna die…And this? This is what you're gonna become!" _

"No," Dean gasps, remembering all of his dreams leading up to hell, about himself turning monster. The endless nightmares, meeting himself with coal-black eyes, begging not to be sent to the pit.

"Oh, yes," the Demon's eyes flicker back to their original charade forms.

"Why are you here? I killed you I—"

"I came back to life. Out of all the things you remember, and the end of our visit isn't one of them? I won, Dean! You went to hell!"

"But I got out," Dean smirks, trying to regain his composure, "You must not like that very much."

But the imposter just chuckles, and the sinking feeling in Dean's gut gets heavier. There's something he doesn't know, something big.

"You're coming home, baby," he whispers, and Dean flinches away from his eerie, gentle touch, His fingers brush against his cheeks, in an almost loving way. It makes him sick to his stomach, how he can feel his own too-sweet breath on his face. Dean pulls away from him, jerking back at his touch.

"My home is with them. At the bunker. It's safe there, it's nice. I love it there I—"

"You don't even believe yourself," fake-Dean shakes his head, "You know you don't belong there, with them. You aren't good enough for earth, and certainly not _heaven. _Not that there's anything wrong with being bad, of course." He circles Dean tauntingly, whispering the words in his ear and sending shivers down his spine.

"I'm Michael's vessel," Dean barks back defensively, "I was chosen by the big man himself. Don't you dare tell me I'm not worthy of heaven, because I am."

"Funny, how you can say words you don't mean," his demonic self sighs mockingly, "No wonder Sam didn't know you were deceiving him for all those months, if you can lie to yourself, lying to your brother about his possession should be a cake walk, right?"

The blow about his brother makes Dean falter.

"That wasn't— That was to protect him."

"Protect him, or protect you? To be selfish is practically a sin, you know."

"And you're kind of a dick, you know," Dean snaps, "I don't need this."

"Oh please. You and I both know you deserve so much worse. Lying? Stealing? You're a killer, Dean! we've tortured people, innocent souls. And you know what?"

"Don't," Dean pleads, trying to block the words, "Don't, please don't."

"We liked it."

Dean stares at himself with so much hatred and regret, he can feel it burning in the back of his throat. The taste of bile in his dry mouth, sour and painful.

"That wasn't my fault."

"Nothing ever is. You think you're so innocent… Look at me! Where do you think I came from? I'm a part of _you!_ I am you! You're a monster, Dean."

"I am not—"

"Everyone knows it, too," he continues, ignoring Dean's attempt to make him stop, "Sam can't look you in the eyes anymore. Cas is too angelic to ignore the demons inside of you. Daddy used to use your anger as a weapon. Your power was his, and you played right into his little game."

"My father loved me."

"Your father _used _you."

Dean thinks maybe he's about to rip his own throat out. And the scary thing is, he's not sure he's talking about his identical twin. He might just kill himself, if he has to hear this. He never wanted to hear this.

"Let me tell you something about yourself, from a personal point of view," The demon smirks, daring Dean to interrupt, "See, I've been in your head this whole time, Mr. Winchester, and I've seen plenty. All the destruction and horror in your life, and I have to say— you might have had it better in hell. At least you had power there. Here? You're just as helpless as the weak little orphan boy you are. So, let's make a deal, shall we?"

"I'd rather rot in hell."

"I can see to that," he smiles, sickeningly wide, "You're on your way there anyways. The question is, would you rather wait in anxiousness for your obliteration, or were you thinking a more pleasant route? I'm pretty good at—"

"You're not taking over my body. I won't let you."

Fake Dean lets out a little laugh, the only sound besides the distant caw of angry birds somewhere over their heads.

"You say that like you have a choice. Look, man, I don't want to have to hurt you."

"It doesn't matter what you do to me. I won't give up."

"Oh it ain't really a matter of what I do to you, but more what I make you do to them. Did you know, that today I made you kill that precious little angel?"

"What?" Dean explodes, lashing out in fury. His head feels like it's going to pound out of his skull. His vision blurs, but with anger instead of tears.

"Calm down, princess. I'm kidding. But just wait a few months, and you'll see. You'll kill him, and Sam, and every innocent bystander in the way. I might not even have to provoke you. You'll probably just do it on your own."

"And why would I do that?" Dean seriously has to get his shit together. He's letting this bastard mess too much with his head.

"For your crown, of course. Dean Winchester, King of Hell. There's a certain… ring to it, don't you think?"

Shaking his head, Dean keeps his eyes trained on the pebbles beneath his feet, trying not to lose his composure.

"What's happening to me?" He asks, to no one but himself, his voice cracking just enough to break his own heart. He's weak. Pitiful.

"You know. Deep down, no matter what they say about your condition, you know what's really happening."

"I won't be like you."

"Honey, you _are_ me. Black eyes and all. C'mon, test it out. I'm sure you're almost there."

The uneasy feeling trembling through Dean's veins freezes and locks itself in his veins. No. No, this isn't happening.

"Almost where?" He asks, not really wanting to know the answer.

"Why, hell of course. Your souls almost ready for its final little twist. Painful, I'm afraid, but necessary for transformation."

"Transformation," The real Dean scoffs, "Into a snob like you?"

"Into a _demon, _like me." Other-him clarifies, tightening the knot in his stomach. He has to stay calm It's just his mind playing tricks on him, "I know what you're thinking, but this is real, you know. You should be ecstatic. Alistair will be delighted to see you again."

"Alistair is dead."

"Sure he is," the has-to-be-hallucination winks, his now blackened eyes sending a chill up Dean's back.

"You can't send me back there!" He yells, his chest heaving, "I don't belong there!"

"We all belong there!" the other screams back, "Humanity is a sin in itself! And you're the scum that hell was practically created for, with your selfishness! Everyone hates you Dean! Even yourself!"

"Which is why I've always wanted to do this," In one quick movement, Dean throws himself on the imposter, strangling him with his bare hands. The demon just laughs, chuckling darkly as Dean bashes his head into the nearest tree, blood pouring from the dent in his head.

"You can't kill me! You would have to kill yourself."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," he mutters back with a glare, with another blow to the back of the other Dean's head. Blood on his hands, blood on his forehead, blood trickling down his bare chest. The laughter finally cuts off with a gurgle of the thick red liquid, only for it to be spit back in his face. Dean wipes it out of his eyes, and pounds his fists in harder.

"I hate you!" He screams at himself, "I wish you would just—"

"Die?" He hears his own voice whisper through cracked, blood-dried lips.

With one last punch, he watches his other body slump over and topple to the ground in a heap against the blood-stained tree trunk.

Tears wash away the smeared red on his forehead, but he ignores them, hardly even looking back on himself. He walks away at the same pace he came, spinning around just once to glare at his unconscious form.

"I guess I really am my own worst enemy," he mutters grimly, "Go to hell, bastard."

He swears to god he can hear his own voice in his head.

_Don't worry. You will. _

And he doesn't know it, but it's in this moment, that there's just a flicker of something in his eyes. So quick, he couldn't have possibly noticed. But it happens. And, if there was anyone around to watch, they'd swear up and down whatever happened to his eyes was not the light catching them, but the darkness swallowing them.

If there are witnesses who stare into his black, angry eyes, they don't speak up and Dean keeps walking, oblivious and pissed, and spiraling out of control.


	9. Chapter 9

When Dean's eyes open, he's been out for nearly two days.

Two days, of wandering endlessly in the unknown fictional forest of his mind, taunting images of Demonic selves dancing in his head.

At first, he wonders if it's even really his own reality, or just another dream-world he's jumping into. That is, until he feels how sore he his… _everywhere. _His nose feels like it's about to explode, his head popping right along with it. He knows the hot bone chilling feeling all too well, the way a bandage sticks uncomfortably across a broken nose. Bruised face. Bruised everything.

For a moment, he almost misses his dreams. Where he didn't have to feel anything at all. Sure the inner turmoil was goddamn heavy, weighing him down and filling him with regret, but physically, it's the best he's been in a long time. Not having to feel is the best kind of feeling.

He doesn't talk about it, though. About his dreams. Actually, he doesn't talk much at all. He just listens to a rambling, worried, distraught Castiel go on and on about his relief. About how he thought Dean was going to die. About how he thought he'd have to bury his best friend. Dean listens, but he can't make himself care. And that scares him. Normally, seeing his angel like this, upset and near-tears, going on and on about how much his missed him, would make Dean _feel. _Make him empathetic, in the least. He would understand and love and worry just as much as Cas does, asking if he was okay, if he could do anything.

"I-I hit you," Cas practically sobs, "It was so violent and unnecessary and I shouldn't have hurt you. I shouldn't have let it get that far…"

But he just doesn't _care. _

He tries to pretend he does, nodding sympathetically and murmuring out a few:

"It's okay" 's and "I'm right here" 's, but his reassurance falls flat, and both of them can hear it like a whistle blowing loud in their ears. It only makes Cas more upset.

"If there is anything wrong that you aren't telling me so help he god—"

"I feel fine, man," He shakes his head. And it's true. He really does feel fine. Good, even. Strong.

Cas looks him over for a moment, pursing his lips and shaking his head, disbelieving.

"Well," he sighs after a moment, "Your fever has broken and I believe you'll be recuperating shortly after you get some food into your system."

And that's when Dean realizes how fucking _hungry_ he is. Without thinking about it, letting his stomach take hold of the moment, he practically jumps out of bed, letting his legs carry himself down to the kitchen, past Sam who immediately get up and trails behind him next to Cas, their eyes practically popping out of their heads

"What?" He mumbles around the handful of cheezits he just stuffed into his mouth.

"Dude, yesterday we thought you were slipping into a fucking coma and now—"

"I'm all better. I don't see what the problem is."

There's a moment of unspeakable silence before Cas shakes his head again.

"We have to tell him. This could be a part of—"

"No, Cas."

"Tell me what?" Dean asks, eyes wide. Of course, his comments are completely ignored.

"Sam we can't withhold this kind of information any longer I think—"

"I don't care what you think, Castiel. I really, really don't give a damn right now."

"What's going on?" Dean asks again, looking back and forth between them. Neither answers, again.

"If this curse is anywhere near the—" Cas almost gets out a complete sentence, but this time it's Dean who cuts him off.

"What the hell are you talking about?" He demands, his voice a full-blown yell.

Sam's eyes warn Cas not to say a word, but all three of them know he can't keep anything from Dean Winchester.

"The Mark is beginning to affect you in unimaginable ways. It seems as though you're… transforming. It's not so much you as it is—"

"Transforming into what?" Dean asks blankly, no emotion inflicted into his features.

"It's not a hundred percent guaranteed however—"

"Transforming into _what?"_ He repeats, looking through Cas instead of at him. He holds no fragment of real emotion, and the worry spreads through the angels lungs, making it hard to breathe.

"A Demon." Feeling the word pass through his lips sends a wave of unexpected relief through him, released from his binding secrets. And Dean doesn't react.

He doesn't process. He doesn't even blink. He just… stands there. He hears the words, but they don't mean anything. He knows how he should respond, but he doesn't _feel _anything.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam and Cas exchange a look, and he's afraid of what that look might mean so he tries to shake off the absolute nothingness that's threatening to overcome him.

"Uhm," he coughs looking down, "Okay."

"Okay?" Sam spits back incredibly, "just fucking okay?"

"Yeah I'm—" He can't find the words he needs to express how he's supposed to feel, because he doesn't even know how he's supposed to feel, "What do you want me to say?"

Huffing, Sam paces behind Castiel, obvious stress and unfathomable frustration taking over his face.

"Oh, I don't know, maybe some cursing or some… some anger or _something! _Don't just say okay, like we told you we're having pizza for dinner. God, Dean, you were more upset when I picked up the wrong flavored _pie _last month!"

"Yeah right, like you were even talking to me last month," Dean scoffs back, knowing it's the only way out the conversation. He can't tell them about his lack of feeling, he just can't. They'll lock him up somewhere, force holy water down his throat and feed him salt for dinner.

Because he's turning into a demon. And he doesn't even care enough to tell them that he thinks it's starting now.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam frowns, trying to make the eye contact Dean refuses to create.

"It means you haven't really been brother of the year, okay?"

"No!" Sam yells again, "Not okay! I wasn't the one who let you get possessed. I cared enough to at least prevent you from losing your free will—"

"Did you though, Sammy?" Dean asks with a bitter chuckle, "Because I'm pretty sure that if you hadn't been so hell bent on hating me, you wouldn't have taken so long to see that I was deteriorating from the inside out. Don't pretend you didn't notice my sudden new drinking habits. I know you knew I wasn't in a good place, and now? Now I'm… _this. _I'm this sick, tortured soul on edge of losing my humanity. Which was _not _by choice, in case you were wondering. I was just trying to save the world from psycho bitch queen thinking then maybe you'd forgive me."

"Don't make this my fault," Sam's face contorts into a bitter smile, biting the inside of his lip with a frantically shaking head, "Don't you dare make all this my fault." Dean knows that face, it's the one Sam uses when he's trying not to cry. Dean is making his brother _cry. _But it doesn't make him feel guilty or wrong of upset. It doesn't make him anything but impartial. And he's sure, that if he were able to feel anything, that would scare him. But it doesn't.

"Enough," Cas sighs, intervening with a step between the two of them, "Dean, what's—"

"Well, Cassie, it seems—"

"No." he snaps, his voice suddenly dark and furious, "No, I am done with being interrupted today. I want to know what's going on, and I want to know now. This is not a way you would normally act, Dean, and I want to know right here, right now why you're being so utterly heartless towards your brother."

"These aren't exactly normal circumstances."

"That's not an answer," Cas narrows his eyes, and it's almost like his voice has gotten deeper, if that's even physically possible.

"I guess I just can't put his wellbeing in front of mine, anymore," Dean just shrugs, figuring that would be a good excuse.

"You're not him," Cas whispers then, and Dean thinks his pulse might just stop, "Dean would never say anything like that. Because you know what? Dean Winchester has no self-righteousness. Especially when it comes to family. Just… go back to your room."

"Gladly," he smiles dryly, turning away.

"Oh and Dean?" Castiel asks.

"Yes?" He turns back around just in time to see the angel raise a gun to his shoulder. A shot rings through the house, bouncing off the concrete walls and hollowed rooms. He stumbles back, an arm clutching his injured shoulder, and falls to the ground.

He can't move. He can't even breathe.

"I learned how to carve a devil's trap into a bullet. Looks like it came in handy."

"Cas, man, it's just me!" He pleads, but feels no real remorse. Just regret, for not being able to stop the little bastard before he sent a bulled through his body.

"Then get up," Castiel smirks, crouching down to look Dean in the eyes.

"I can't, you fucking shot me!"

"I've seen you get up and limp to the impala after getting hit by a truck. I think you can handle a bullet," Sam mumbles, looking ashamed and fearful about what's going to happen next.

"That was when I could go to the bathroom without one of you helping me there!"

"You were doing just fine walking around this morning," Dean shakes his head and looks away, only to look back at the sound of chuckling.

"Oh, you got me!" Dean laughs, his eyes flashing black, "It's been a while since we've fooled around, Sammy. It's nice to feel like your brother again."

"You are _not _my brother."

"Oh, but I am."

"What have you done to him?" Sam demands, "Where is he?"

His only response is more sick cackling, "What, you really don't get it? I _am_ your brother. In the flesh. C'mon, I figured a Stanford man would have the knowledge…"

"What are—"

"Sam," Cas warns, standing back up to grab him by the shoulders, forcing him into looking him square in the eyes, "I think we should talk about this in the other room."

"What, why? All we need to do is exorcise the bastard and—"

"Oh Sammy?" the demon smirks from his spot on the floor, "I don't think you quite understand. If you get rid of me, all you'll have is the body. I mean, you can have it if you want. Shouldn't be too hard to find a new body, but I'll miss the leather jacket on this one."

Sam looks back and forth between the _thing _on the ground and the angel grabbing him.

"What?" He asks again, his voice faint.

"He wasn't possessed, Sam. The demon in your brother _is _your brother… all the memories and personality traits, and—"

"Exceptional pop-culture references," Dean interrupts with a leer.

"Yes," Cas shoots him an agitated glare, "even those. All of the demons you've encountered: Meg, Crowley, even Lilith and _Alistair— _They were all human at one point, until years of hell, or some sort of deal or _something _made them turn. No one is born a demon. But people, good people, can become them."

"Dean is a pretty wimpy name for a demon though," the man of the floor scoffs, "Then again, the name Meg wasn't quite as rad as 'Alistair' either."

"Dean?" Sam gasps, sadly.

"The one and only," he offers a sarcastic, tight lipped smile.

"We'll… We'll use the cure," Sam turns back to Cas before he can get lost in the psychotic look in his 'brother's eye, "We can change him back, with enough human blood and— and everything will go back to normal."

"It may not be that simple, Sam," comes his saddened response, "The Mark may work differently… and we would have to desensitize him first, which would be more painful than anything either of us want to put him through. He might not be able to take it. His body is still decently weak, and we have no means of acquiring that much human blood."

"Me, we can use mine."

"Sam," Cas just shakes his head, "The last time you tried to do this was for the trials. Do I have to remind you that not only did you nearly die, but it started this whole mess in the first place? Had you not attempted to complete the trials by curing Crowley, you wouldn't have gone comatose, Dean wouldn't have felt the need to call upon Ezekiel, you wouldn't have been possessed by Gadreel or been angry at Dean, who wouldn't have been alone in a partnership with Crowley, who let him get the Mark of Cain, so he wouldn't behold such a curse, and none of this ever would have happened."

"Wow," Sam lets out a single short, humorless laugh, "So you think this is my fault too."

"That's not what I—"

"Lock him up," Sam says instead of continuing with the banter, his voice cold and dead, "put him in the room we were keeping Crowley. I'll get the handcuffs so we can dig the bullet out. Then I'll see what I can do about getting blood from the hospital's blood bank and we'll go from there."

"I'll make more holy water and acquire more salt."

"Why?"

"So that we can use them, of course. We'll need it if we're going to get Dean back to his right mind."

"What? We aren't torturing him! Are you out of your goddamn mind, that's Dean in there!"

"Hey, I am right here!" Dean exclaims.

"I told you that desensitizing him would not be pleasant," Castiel looks down grimly, hoisting Dean up, and walking out.


	10. Chapter 10

He's been doing it for hours, just watching the pain on Cas' face every time he has to use the angel blade to cut an X in his brother's arm. The pain, on his face, when Dean yells at him, or mocks him, or reminds him how awful it is. Sam's been watching, but he hasn't done anything at all. Because what can he do? Cas' eyes scream sadness, but his rigid posture only shows anger and resentment. Sam knows better— this is sorrow.

They've lost Dean to someone who could never amount to him, _something _unnatural. And they couldn't save him in time. The old Dean would have rather killed himself than become this. He would want Sam to kill him now.

_There's no honor in a purposeful death, _Dean said once, when one of their cases just turned out to be a mass suicide, instead of a real case.

But Sam doesn't want to think about that. He can't be the one to off the man who took care of him since birth. He can't hurt someone who taught him how to ride a bike, and cooked him mac and cheese almost every night because he knew it was his little brother's favorite. He can't even look him in the eyes, because he knows he won't see the same ones that used to look at him with so much care and worry, but to be met with new ones staring back, hard and empty.

Which is why Cas is the one with the container of the kitchen's cooking salt, and a bowl of holy water. And Sam knows it's selfish, to make the angel do this.

Because every bitter word that leaves Dean's mouth breaks Castiel a little more. Every wince of pain, ever tear, every cry out with pain. Sam notices, whether it's Cas' or Dean's. Or his. Sam has cried a too, broken down and built himself up over and over… and he's not even the one having Dean throw back his mistakes in his face.

Yet.

Cas won't be able to make it much longer, judging by the pure horror playing under his merciless mask of torture. Every cut he digs into Dean's flesh makes him shake, every time the salt touches Dean's lips, the screaming makes him freeze.

Screams. There's a lot of screaming. And blood, Dean's blood, staining the salt dripping off his teeth that Cas forces down his throat. Vomiting holy water, crying bloody tears. This is torture. They are _torturing _him, hell, maybe even killing him. The vessel would be dead already, if it hadn't been Dean himself instead of an everyday possession. It is not a monster he can hate, handcuffed to his chair. It's his brother. They're trying to weaken him, so when the human blood enters his system, he can't fight it off. It will be worth it when he's back to himself. If he ever will be.

"Sam!" Dean yells, "Sammy, help me! Don't let him kill me! It hurts, Sammy!"

_It's not him, _Sam tries to reason in his head, listening to the gurgle of salt, shoved into his brother's mouth, a sick bloody smile playing on his lips through his moans of pain. _That thing is not Dean. _

But it is. There is no true demon, no one to exercise, and Dean is not inside, begging to be let back into his body, because he's still in it, in control, and conscious. Everything he does and says, it's him. It's _Dean. _But it can't be, can it?

"Sam!" Cas yells, "Sam you'll be no help to him if you insist on just staring."

"Sammy? He's an emotional one, I—" Dean's undoubtable cocky comment is cut off with a splash of holy water. Cas glares, eyes harsher than his terrifying stance over the black-eyed, smirking man.

"No need to get testy," Dean hisses when the burn has worn off, "You look a bit angry, babe. What's the matter, don't you love me?"

"You are not the man I enjoy the presence of, if that's what you mean to say, considering our lack of a human—like relationship."

"Oh, but I _am_ him… How else would I know about all the times you've lied to me, made me suffer?"

Cas is about to get the holy-water filled syringe, when Dean's words stop him dead.

"How else would I know that I carried your fucking trench coat everywhere, willing myself to find you after you tried ending the world? How would I know, that after months of looking for you, you just threw the jacket in the wash and walked away? How could you leave it there, Cas? How could you leave _me _to be with the Leviathans? And in Purgatory… Why the hell would you put me through that, not even bothering to come with me? Do you know the guilt that I felt for months…" His eyes are back to their pleading, pure green state, desperation in his voice instead of cold sarcasm. Cas thinks he might start crying, but a small part of his brain knows it's a trick. That it's not really what Dean would say, not that Castiel can deny the fact that it's probably how he's always felt.

"I'm sorry I—"

"What?" Dean asks, "_What?" _he repeats, his angry, booming voice vibrating off the walls.

"I didn't intend— I thought…"

A hand touches the back of his shoulder, and suddenly Castiel is acutely aware pf Sam's presence.

"Take a break, okay? I can… I'll handle this. I need some alone time with him. And you're a hot mess. Just cool off and come back in a little bit," He has to wiggle the syringe out of the angel's numb hands. Cas pretends he isn't sobbing when he reaches the hall. Sam pretends not to hear him.

"So little brother's going to take a turn?" Dean's back to bitter words and charcoal eyes.

"Try me," Sam raises and eyebrow, looking over the items in front of him. Salt. Holy water. Knives. Syringes. Angel blades. Anything and everything they have to hurt a demon, an enemy. That's what Dean is now. The enemy. Immediately, his eyes flicker to green, a piercing sad color, dull and sorrowful on an almost-recognizable face. He looks genuine, now. Sad. But he's only pretending. This isn't Dean, it's a trick. The whole fucking thing is a trick.

"Why do you hate me, Sammy?" He asks, tears filling his voice, "Why can't you just love me? After everything I've done for you?"

"I'm not falling for this." Sam stands perfectly still, not moving a muscle.

"Don't do this to me!" Dean yells, leaning forward in his banded chair, "How can you do this to me? I'm your brother! I fucking raised you, and you're going to torture me to death, like you don't know anything about my experiences in hell? I know how torture is, I endured thirty years of it before I picked up a knife myself. Don't do this like you think it's nothing but pain! As if you don't know it's more than just a physical agony! As if you can't even—"

"I'm not falling for it!" Sam yells, his hands enclosing around Dean's neck. But the tears brimming at his waterline tell a different story, and his shaking frame doesn't do anything to help that statement.

"Not falling? You seem to have a great time falling, Sam. In love at least. What was your reason for leaving me in purgatory, again?"

"Don't you dare…"

"I would have looked for you!" his voice trails, quaking and quivering with real-seeming emotions. Sam is starting to slip. It feels too honest. He knows too much to make it all up, "I was a good brother, Sam! I cared too fucking much, and that's how I got here. You know," he calms down, just in the slightest, "It really sucks to be the one who cares more. No matter what I did for you, you could never do the same. You go to hell, I keep my promise and go to Lisa, but research and look for you every day of my life until you show up one day, soulless or not, ripping me away from the closest thing I had to a real family. But I go to purgatory, and you fuck a hot veterinarian instead!"

"I loved her!"

"Because you didn't love me!"

No one speaks. The air is so thick, you would need a chainsaw to even make a dent through it, let alone cut it with a knife.

"Is that—" Sam shakes his head, "That's not—" He doesn't know how to react. He can't feed the demon in his brother. He can't let it get to his head. But it's there already, multiplying and spreading through every thought like bacteria.

"You left me. Again. Tell me Sam, do you know what happened the first time you left us? Do you know what happened that night you went to Stanford?"

Sam doesn't move. He doesn't even let himself breathe.

"Of course you don't" Dean shakes his head now, a malicious laugh filling the deadened air, the blood in the gash on his forehead dripping a black-red dot onto the floor. Blood is black, Sam decides, not red. It's as dark as night and evil and demons, and his brother. Blood is black, like Dean Winchester's soul.

"What happened?" Sam takes in an uneasy, shaky breath.

"You sure you want to know?"

He just nods, because he doesn't have the will to do anything else.

"Dad wasn't happy," He begins in a dark, monotone tenor, "He yelled and screamed and got drunk off his ass. Do you remember how I used to hide all that money for you? I would sign as dad in your admission papers, and I paid for books and— Dad didn't like that. He didn't really… do anything I couldn't handle. He wasn't like, abusive or anything, but the bruises on my stomach probably wouldn't—"

"That's not… It's not okay Dean, you can't think that's okay…" Sam just gapes, open-mouthed. Dean would be the one to defend his father, after telling a story about his dad abusing him over something someone else did. "I didn't know he would—"

"Let me finish. Dammit, Sam, that's not even the bad part."

His stomach drops. His father was hitting him, and that's not the worst part?

"I was in my room, Sam. And I called you, not to tell you to come back, but just to talk to you. I was alone with dad and— he would even look at me. He was so disappointed that I could go behind his back and help you deceive him or whatever. I just wanted to hear your voice, and pretend that me and dad were on a mission somewhere, and you were in a motel studying for finals, like you would have been a few months ago. I just— You didn't answer. You hung up on me, and when I tried gain, you sent me a text. You remember what it said?"

"No," Sam swallows hard, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Don't lie to me!" Dean booms suddenly, in a rumbling growled voice.

"…Yes." Sam mutters weakly, guilt twisting in his stomach.

"Tell me," Dean murmurs sadly, "Tell me what you sent."

Sam pauses first, taking a breath before he can decide what he should and shouldn't say. But he has to know what happened, and he won't if he doesn't say the words.

"_Dean,"_ he says, his eyes still screwed shut, quoting the message he had sent eleven— twelve?— years ago, and was never able to forget, "_Dean, I need you to stop. I'm finally going somewhere in my life, and I'm sorry but it can't be with you. You and dad bring monsters along with you, and I can't have that in my life. Please don't make this too hard for us, okay? That kind of life is destructive and sick. I love you, but hearing your voice will just make me run back to you. I don't want to go back." _

"Good," Dean blinks back tears of his own, "Now, do you know what happened when I read that?"

"No," Sam breathes, though he thinks he might. But he doesn't want to be right. He really, really wants to be wrong. Grief cuts through his torso like a sickening knife, stabbed and twisted into his spine.

"I couldn't live with myself, thinking I was never going to see my brother again. That I would have to live alone, on and off with my father who hated me for driving you away. That the only life I'd ever had was seen as 'sick' and that I'd never be able to get away from it like you could… I couldn't deal with that."

"What did you do?" Sam demands, quavering. But he gets no reply, but his brother's blank stare at the floor, "Dammit, Dean! What did you do?" There's more dead space, but finally he turns to look him in the eyes.

"Dad found me with a revolver in my mouth, okay? The silver pistol with the little—the…" he makes unrecognizable patterns with his handcuffed hands, trying to illustrate the embellishments on the thing that should have easily ended his life, "It clicked, but it didn't fire. Dad wrestled it out of my hands and told me off and reminded me of everyone who would die if I was stupid enough to end myself. The people I wouldn't save, and the disappointment everyone would feel. Did you know there's absolutely no honor in a purposeful death?"

The room is spinning. The whole fucking world is spinning. He can't know what direction he's looking, or the way he's facing or what he's doing. Everything hurts, but everything's numb, too.

Dean? Dean Winchester, the fearless older brother… Wanted to die? Because of him. Because he left and he said those awful things and he…

He lurches forward, the sick feeling in his body taking over. He gags and wretches, vomit on the floor and tears on his face. The image of a younger version of his brother bringing a little silver hand gun to his mouth, and trying to pull the trigger. He starts crying. Sobbing. Wailing.

And all he hears is laughing. Dean, laughing. A disturbing smile spreads on Dean's face, and his eyes turn a glossy black, deeper than the blackness of the blood on the floor.

"You thought I couldn't make you break, huh?" He chuckles, "All it took was a little trip down memory lane."

"You sick, twisted bastard!" Sam yells, loud enough to shake the walls, "You motherfucking, no good son of a bitch! You don't use my brother like that!"

"I _am_ your brother!" Dean yells back, "This is me, this has always been me! You just never cared enough to see it! I have always been my own demon, Sam, only now I have the eyes to prove it."

Sam screams, but he's not sure what. Unintelligible animal sounds ripping up his throat and choking him. He yells, and screams and cries.

Cas bursts in, just in time to watch Sam plunge the angel blade to his brother's shoulder.


	11. Chapter 11

"Sam!" Cas yells, just in time to stop him before Sam goes to stab the blade into Dean's heart, "Sam, You need to calm down!"

The angel blade clangs to the ground, and Dean's laughing never ceases to stop from his permanent spot locked to his chair.

"We can't hurt him! If we kill his body, he'll die when we get him back!" Castiel shoves Sam over, watching the man tumble over to the ground.

"What if we can't get him back, Cas?" Sam explodes, looking up from the hard, concrete floor.

"We will."

"Don't tell me that unless you're sure," Sam's voice wavers. He's trying not to start crying again. The stench of vomit and blood fills the air around them, and he's trying to pretend it's the smell that's making his eyes water, even though all three of them know that's not the case.

"I don't know why you're trying to get me back," Dean calls over to them, "I'm right here."

Cas spins around in fury, and no man has ever understood the wrath of heaven until seeing this expression on his face.

"The only reason I am not reaching out to smite you this very second is because I know when we bring back the part of you your deadened soul has buried, your guilt might kill you for me. And, for the record, I want you to know when the sane part of you wakes up that neither Sam not I are mad at you and you should not feel guilty for anything that has happened. However, if you pull one more fucking stunt like this Mark in your lifetime I will end you myself."

"Aw, Cassie does care," He smiles, tight-lipped and sarcastic.

"About Dean? Of course I do. Which is why I did this," Cas sighs, rolling up his sleeve in one motion. It's starting to heal, but when Sam squints, he can still see where the inside crease of his elbow was pricked with a needle. The bruises around the small little red dot are fading, but it's obvious there was blood drawn.

"What did you…?" Sam's eyebrows furrow in confusion.

"Demons are cured with the injection of pure blood," Cas smirks, "What's more pure than the blood of an angel?"

"You wouldn't," Dean spits, "That would damage the vessel. You might not care about me but you care about who I was, don't you? Do you know the _pain _we would go through? Angel blood is holy water on steroids!"

"I'm fairly certain that the Dean I know would endure anything to be human again."

"You'll be putting him through the pain of hell. Cas, you know what happened to him in hell. You can't do that to him. You don't have the guts."

"I think you underestimate my willpower."

"I think you underestimate mine. You really think I'll go back? Why? I like being this. I like telling the truth. I was too weak before to tell either of you anything. What, don't you want to know how I feel?"

"Of course we do," Sam finally manages to lift himself back on his feet, "I've always begged you to open up, but you always shut us out."

"I wonder why. Maybe it's because you—"

"Sam, you can't provoke him. I understand you want to know how your brother feels, but he'll twist everything to get a reaction from you."

"I need to know, Cas. There's something wrong with him, and it's more than just the Mark. I have to fix it or—"

"We need to get him back first. You can have conversations about earth-shattering revelations later." He turns on his heel to leave, but Sam stops him.

"Don't leave me alone with him. I'll kill him, or worse."

"You'll be fine, Sam. I'll be back within a minute. Just stay calm."

But being told to 'stay calm' and actually staying calm are two very different things. Anxiety plagues Sam's heart the moment he leaves.

"So," Dean sighs, "looks like it's just you and me again."

"Don't talk to me," Sam mutters, staring up at the ceiling, sitting cross-legged on the floor. He just want to sleep. Maybe even sleep himself into a coma. It would be worth it just to get rid of the nightmares that exist whether he's conscious or not.

"Are you sure? You might not have much longer to hear my voice."

"What are you talking about?" Sam huffs, knowing that he's going to regret asking.

"That angel blood could probably burn me out, damn me to hell like an ill-roasted egg, all on one side."

Sam chooses not to progress with the conversation. He doesn't want to hear about any of this. Damnation, death, blood… he's so sick of it all. When Cas comes back with the medical bags of deep red liquid, Sam gets lost in the color. He's drowning in it. Drowning in the blood and fear. He just wants his brother back, even if he knows his brother probably doesn't want him back. He's pretty fucking awful to him, anyways.

Neglecting him, ignoring him. He sees it now, al the times he should have been there and wasn't. Or the times he _shouldn't _have been there, but was. And after everything Sam's done, Dean is still the one being tortured. Dean is still the one who thinks he's selfish and needy. Dean is still the one who tried to kill himself because of how lonely he felt in a world full of people who cared, but never told him.

Sam never really told him how much he cared. Not until the end, when Dean wasn't even lucid enough to know what was real and what was just a hallucination of his own mind. Was it so unheard of for Sam to say he loved him, that Dean could have thought it was a hallucination?

Considering how he'd been treating him before Dean got sick, Sam wouldn't be surprised.

"I love you," Sam says, because he's hoping somewhere the real Dean can hear him, "I really fucking love you, and I need you to stop trying to push me away. I know I can't ask you to take all the pain we're about to put you through, but I'm selfish, and I need you, so I'm going to force you to take it anyways so I can have you back."

"Who do you think you're talking to?" Dean asks coldly, looking over Sam's kneeled posture, his eyes still twisted shut, "Sam, I don't want to be saved. You're not going to go back on your word, are you? If I remember correctly, you told me just a few months ago that you wouldn't save me like I saved you. If I don't want to be saved, you have no right to save me. Am I right?"

One tear escapes Sam's closed eye, but he keeps breathing, in and out._ Just stay calm. _

"Dean, I—"

Whatever he's going to say gets cut off with the sound of a cough.

"I'm still here," Cas murmurs quietly, "I'm sorry, but we need to move on."

"Let just get this over with," Sam breathes, wiping away the moisture on his cheeks with a loud sniff.

Castiel lifts the first syringe of blood up to stab into Dean's neck, but Sam stops him with a cautious hand.

"Let me," He whispers, pulling it out of Cas' tense grasp.

When the needle makes contact with flesh, it takes Sam just a moment too long to press down and inject the liquid inside.

"Please," Dean whispers roughly, "Don't do this."

But his thumb presses slow and steady, and the second the blood reaches his system, the room is filled with screaming. Tears rush down Dean's face, cries erupting, strangled from his lips. Moans and groans and yelps. Sam just flinches and stumbles backwards in shock.

"Cas, what the hell is it doing to him?" He feels like the air is being squeezed out of his lungs, when Dean's lungs are quite literally refusing air.

"It's killing the demon," he can't make eye contact, his voice too grim and low to really understand.

"But is it killing him?"

"Not quite yet."

"Yet?"

"Hopefully never. We'll just have wait and see." Or at least that's what Sam thinks he says. He can't hear anything over his brother's animalistic shrieks.

All either of them can do is stand and stare at the writing man. It's like he's having a seizure, shaking with his eyes rolled back. Sam kind of wishes He'd spent more time listening to his taunting about guilt-trips than this. Anything but this.

And Cas won't say it, but he kind of wishes he weren't an angel, because then they wouldn't have the resources to put him through this.

"Sam!" Is the first real translatable word out of his mouth, and "Cas!" is the second. Both are at his side in an instant.

"It's okay," Sam sighs, wiping a cold hand across his sweaty forehead, "It's okay."

"You'll be alright," Cas mumbles, too, but he's not sure if he's trying to reassure Dean, Sam, or himself. He pulls out the second bottle of blood with a blank expression on his face, "We have to give him more," he shames in having to say. Sam refuses to acknowledge him, but Castiel can tell he's heard by the new shade of paleness that's taken over his shaking frame.

With an unsteady hand, Cas injects the second round and the yelling intensifies. Dean's hands lash outwards, the handcuffs cutting into his wrist, bleeding rings sliced evenly into his arms. Both Sam and Cas reach out to steady them. His hands blindly search for theirs, taking one into each. With every passing second, his grip tightens. For once, Sam's glad for the lack of circulation. It's one less thing he has to feel.

But he knows he deserves the guilt doubling, tripling, in his stomach. That what he feels is just a fraction of what his brother does. Castiel knows it, too. And somewhere, deep in his own mind, Dean's hoping they won't feel what he does.

Because he's burning. Burning in invisible flames that won't be put out with words or water. The fire's inside him, crawling slowly and agonizingly through every vein in his body. His nerves are like live wires, cut at the end and electrocuting every cell. Pain festers in his pores, anguish pressing into his mind.

This is hell.

But he can't decide if it's real or a memory, and to be honest, he doesn't give a fuck because it feels the same either way. He's screaming, but he's not sure what he's saying. He crying, but he isn't sure who's name. All he can wonder, is that if he was on a room full of everyone he's ever loved, who would he run to in this moment? Who would he want to hold his hand and murmur comfort in his ear? He knows someone has to be there, ha can't be this alone, but he can't remember where he is. He doesn't know who he's with. Who his _body _is with, considering he's absolutely nowhere but the blackness of his own brainwaves.

He doesn't know if it's been seconds or an eternity, but it feels like both at the same time. HE's been burning for years, decades even, but maybe it's only been a minute up on earth. If he's in hell, that is. And it doesn't look like anyone's been sent down from heaven to get him, this time. He's just surprised Cas came the first time.

Guess it just wasn't worth it to get him back again.

But what he can't see, is Castiel, sitting and praying. With his hands folded, keeling in front of Dean, talking to his father for the first time since the fall, begging god for a way out. Any way out from where they are now. There is no light at the end of the tunnel, because it's not a tunnel. It's a hole, like Alice and wonderland, forever falling downwards, increasing their speed with every passing second, spiraling until they'll finally hit the ground. And then there will be nothing.

All three of them long for nothing, but no one is brave enough to say it outloud.


	12. Chapter 12

Waking up hurts. It shouldn't, but it does. More than unconsciousness. He barely remembers the night before, when Sam finally took enough Nyquil to force himself into a drugged sleep with the only purpose being to forget everything except his own name. And to be honest, maybe forgetting his name would be a good idea, too. Who wants to be known as the fuck up of the family anyways? As of last night, his brain was too muddled to even create decent nightmares. But now? He's tempted to take more cold meds just to reach catalepsy. He can hear Dean's voice telling him in the back of his head that it's a bad idea, to mix drugs into sleeping pills, but the memory of a brother who used to care about his wellbeing just makes him want to sleep more.

If he focuses, he can hear his brother writhing in the other room, behind iron demon-proofed walls. It makes him want to hurl, kind of like Dean is every ten minutes. He's running a too-high-for-comfort fever now, too, and Sam knows that can't be a good sign. Sure, they want him human, but they don't want him a _dead _human. He just needs his brother back, and then maybe he'll be able to sleep without heavy duty cold meds, and function without one serving too much liquor in his system.

But at least his family hasn't injected holy water into his system with the intent of burning out any impurities in his soul, knowing it will cause him physical pain.

Guilt doesn't go well with Bourbon. For a second, he thinks he's going to throw up again, but the guilt-ridden nausea passes and leaves anxiety behind. He's twitching and tapping, his fingers hitting the solid wood of the desk with a _tap. _The desk is the only solid thing around him. He is unstable. _Tap. _All of his relationships are unstable. _Tap. _Everything he's learned and loved is in the other room, running a 104 degree fever, dying in pain because of him. _Tap._ One person, who took on the role of parent, brother, and best friend. A childhood, a way of life, his whole family— gone. _Tap, tap, tap!_

His fingers claw beneath the table in a sudden rush, his fingernails scraping along the bottom. The table flips in one solid motion, crashing to the ground with a sound much louder than a tap. Papers fly through the air. Case files that he'll probably never look at again, if he becomes partnerless after tonight. Contacts he probably won't call, even though people deserve to know of Dean's demise, simply because he's too ashamed to explain how it happened. Other people's tragedies on paper float down to the ground, but Sam can't bring himself to care about a man stupid enough to go to a house full of spirits and his mourning wife who probably told him to go. He doesn't care about a set of idiotic campers who stumbled drunken upon a Wedigo, or their grieving parents. Werewolves on a rampage in Kansas, Nest of vamps down in LA, Ghouls, shifters, witches, spells…He. Does. Not. Care. He's too preoccupied in his own mourning and grief. And for once, he needs to be selfish.

"Sam!" Cas yells, storming in not ten seconds later, "What the hell is going on in here?"

"Not much. Just losing my fucking mind while you're busy talking to an imaginary god who doesn't give two shits about us."

"My father is a righteous man who—"

"Your father left you!" Sam explodes, "Just like mine did, just like_ ours_ did! How can you and Dean sit there and pretend to love people who don't love you back? God, you're so much like him it hurts."

"It's simple," Cas sounds calm, "I love him unconditionally, and he loves me. And your father loved you and I know that you love him. Just because he's absent doesn't mean he doesn't care. Besides, it's an honor to be compared to the man Dean was."

The way he says 'was' instead of 'is' makes Sam want to curl up and die. But that job's already been taken by Dean himself.

"I need to get out of here," he mutters, but he knows he won't leave. He never really can.

"You need to be here for your brother," Castiel says, mouth forming a hard, straight line.

"Are you telling me what to do?" Sam challenges with his eyebrows raised.

"I believe I am."

They stand like that, tense and unmoving for just a second too long, when a piercing scream breaks their apprehensive atmosphere. Cas blinks, like he's suddenly remembering there's another person in the house. It adds years to his face, just recalling what's going on in the next room over.

"I'm going back to Dean," Cas looks down at his feet, speaking in a dead voice "Do what you want."

Sam just nods and watches him go.

"Dean?" Cas murmurs quietly as he pushes open the ironclad door. All he gets is a strangled moan in reply, "Dean," he repeats, sighing sadly

"Cas," Dean chokes, is eyes opened in just the slightest little squint on his blood-covered face.

"I'm here," he sits cross legged on the floor and reaches his hand up to still Dean's, "I'm sorry."

He's not sure if Dean hears him or not, but the words he says are more for his own sake, as selfish as it is. He needs to say things like 'You'll be okay' to assure himself that those words are true. But saying it doesn't make that true. It only makes him a liar.

"Everything's going to be fine," Cas says, ignoring the trickle of tears he has to speak around, "You'll be fine, okay? Everything's going to be fine."

He just keeps repeating the words, _'fine, fine, fine, fine' _but it holds an empty meaning. Nothing really means anything anymore. Language is just a made up thing designed to communicate ideas and feelings. And the feeling Cas is trying to express is very far from 'fine'.

"And next weekend you can teach me how to, uh, how to take shots. You wanted to teach me that, right? And I told you that I would never consume enough alcohol to get drunk but perhaps we can— we can try. We can always," he exhales a shallow, shaky breath wiping his cheeks with his free hand, "We can always try."

He doesn't get the response he wants. There is no laugh echoing in the walls, there is no witty comeback or reference to a TV show that he doesn't understand. The emptiness is something Castiel _wishes _he doesn't understand.

He might have been siting there for minutes or hours or maybe even days, but Castiel doesn't care. He doesn't need to eat or sleep or leave to clear his head if Dean needs him. He doesn't need anything but Dean back.

"I fucked up," he sighs after a while. The profanity tastes foreign on his tongue, but he knows it's the right word to use. He's never said that before, much less about himself, but he understands why Dean uses it so much now. It's a relief, even in self-loathing, to use a word made for the purpose of not using. Cas idly wonders what the point is, to invent a word you aren't supposed to say. Humans don't make sense, but then again neither do angels who pretend to be more pure than they are. Ironically enough, demons are the most honest species Castiel has ever had the displeasure of meeting. At least they don't tell lies.

When Dean was a demon, none of what he said was untrue. Human Dean lies to protect the people he loves, but when he wasn't human? It's probably the most honest he's ever been. So honest, that the thought of what he said makes Cas' heart stop— and not in the good falling-in-love-with-you kind of way.

_How could you leave it there, Cas? How could you leave me to be with the Leviathans? And in Purgatory… Why the hell would you put me through that, not even bothering to come with me?_

He can still hear the demon asking. That's how he feels. How he really feels, deep down. Like Cas left him. Like he purposefully put him through hell, instead of dragging him out. Like he wishes Cas hadn't even bothered to save him at all.

How could anyone hate themselves that much? How could someone so worthy of love confuse himself with those who deserve to be alone? Everything he's ever done has made him a righteous man, even when he broke in hell, the burden of regret was enough to keep him pure. Dean is pure, despite his flaws. His_ human_ flaws that Castiel is infatuated with. Enough sin to make him virtuous, because all of his sins were done in good intentions. He sold his soul to save his brother. He called for Gadreel to save him, too. He got the mark to win back forgiveness. Forgiveness he didn't deserve to lose in the first place.

Cas wonders if maybe deep down Dean can hear him crying. The thought forces him to silent his sobs because there's no use in putting him through emotional pain and guilt when he's already going through a living hell inside his head.

And somewhere deep down, Dean knows he's there anyways, because he knows Cas will always be there. To save him, guide him, and piss him off when he least expects questions about movies, humanity, and sexuality. Dean says he wishes he would just learn all that shit on the internet like everyone else, but part of him likes being the major influence in Cas' life, no matter how many personal questions he has.

Right now, Dean has quite a few things to ask himself. Like why he feels like he's been hit by a bus, or why he can't quite breathe yet. But he doesn't ask, because he doesn't know how to make himself form the words without breaking into a paralyzing scream.

"Dean," he hears from somewhere beside him, "Dean, come back to me."

_I'm right here, _he wants to say, but doesn't know how, _I'm not leaving you. _

Only even he doesn't trust himself. Where have the days gone? What's happened while he's been out? He can't remember anything past the black wall blocking his memory, but he knows it's something. Probably something he'd rather not know. He's in too much pain to question it.

He thinks maybe he can hear Sam in the room, too, but he phases into his next round of searing pain and everything else goes mute.

"This is the last round," are the words he couldn't have heard Sam say, "After this, he'll be good. At least, he should be."

There's a sadness in his voice Cas isn't familiar with. It's not the determined kind of loss. It's the 'I'm giving up on everyone and everything' kind of loss.

"Do you think he knows we're here?" Castiel can feel the childish tremor in his voice, but he doesn't care. He's vulnerable like this, but so is Sam. The only difference, is that Cas isn't trying to hide it.

"Yeah, Cas. Of course he knows. He's listening to us as we speak." But he doesn't sound so convinced. The words would sound more assuring coming from a computed robot voice. Sam is simply going over the motions, trying to comfort his friend because it's the only thing he can think to do.

"Is it possible for an angel to get sick?" He asks, "Because I believe this is what it feels like to vomit."

But he doesn't, because there's nothing in his stomach. Except guilt, of course, but he won't be able to throw that up. The guilt is permanent, digging itself a home in Castiel's core. And Sam's, but neither of them mention that.

Suddenly, they know how Dean's felt all his life— like everything bad that's ever happened is their fault. Because they weren't good enough or smart enough. Because they just couldn't save everyone. Maybe if Dean could have saved that ten year old girl from drowning when he was fourteen, maybe if he hadn't gambled away the dinner money trying to get baby Sammy a toy for his birthday, maybe if he didn't get in that fight with dad over the friend he brought 'home'…

Maybe then they wouldn't be here now.

But they all know that isn't true. No matter what happens, they will always end up here. Self loathing, angry, and sick of the world.

Or maybe the world's just sick of them.

"Cas," Dean moans, and at first they ignore it, because he's been moaning their names for hours on end. But then— "Cas, I need you to- fuck, what's going on?"

He's conscious.

"Dean?" Sam practically shouts, making him flinch at the sound.

"I'm fucking… What?" He erupts into coughs, confused and squinting as if the muted light of the dungeon-like prison they're in hurts his eyes.

"You are okay, Dean," Cas sighs, unstrapping his arms from their restraints.

"The blood all over my face tells a different story," He mutters, trying to wipe the red out of his eyes, "Oh my god," he gasps and gags at the same time at the sight of his wrists that the handcuffs had dug into so badly he nearly bled to death. Cas has a trash can in front of them before anyone can really process what's going on.

"Are you—" Cas starts to ask.

"Holy shit," Dean interrupts instead, "Why do I feel like— like—" he tries to find the right words, "A demon stuffed with salt?" He tries to chuckle at his expression' but stops when no one else even bothers to pretend it's funny.

No one speaks.

No one even makes eye contact.

If Dean thought he was sick before, this feeling is being diagnosed with stage four stomach cancer.

"No," His voice is airy and breathless, "No I'm— No."

And that's how they know he remembers. He bolts up, too fast for his body to catch up and nearly passes out. Instead, he forces himself forward and runs, as fast as a fatally injured man can run, out. He isn't sure where he's going or what he'll do when he gets there, but he runs.

"Dean, come on. Dean!" Sam calls after him, hardly having to jog to catch up. Sam's long legs and Dean's limping, half dead state makes for an easy race, "Look, okay? Look this isn't—"

"Don't!" He yells, "Don't tell me this isn't my fault. This is so damn screwed up and… Oh my god," his pace slows to a stop and he quite literally just sits in the middle of the hallway, watching the drippy trail of blood behind him. He rubs his hand down his face, rubbing it raw, just trying to clean the blood off. And he's afraid, because he's not sure if all of it's his. And if it is, where he's bleeding. He can't _feel _the cuts and lacerations lining his body anymore_. _He's practically scratching his face off, but the blood just moves around, not wiping away like he wants it to. Like he _needs _it to. It coats his hands, up his arms. Like he went swimming in it. He should have drowned himself, it that were the case.

He's too fucking stupid and selfish to off himself before turning into a monster, though, so what makes him think he'd be noble enough to kill himself now? The scrubbing of his hands quickens, but doesn't become any more successful. Maybe he'll die peeling his own face off. Maybe he should. He lets out a frustrated scream, and then his hands are lifted away from him, Sam taking a seat cross-legged beside him. Castiel watches from the other end of the hall as Sam unbuttons his blue plaid shirt, and presses it to his brother's bleeding face. Red soaks through the blue and white, in a stain that will most definitely never come out. It's Sam's favorite shirt, but he won't tell Dean that. Dean already knows, of course, but he doesn't say anything either.

**I'm so sorry for the wait guys! Please don't hate me...**


	13. Chapter 13

When Cas finds it in him to walk over and interrupt them, he can see the tears starting to replace the blood. They steam silently down Dean's cheeks, and even though no one mentions them they all know they're there. It takes a lot to make Dean Winchester cry so openly. Tearing up, letting a few spill out is one thing. Cas can't remember a time when he's seen him so upset. But he doesn't look weak, exactly. He doesn't appear vulnerable or small. If anything, the ferocity burning in his eyes makes him terrifyingly determined looking.

"What did I do?" he spits, the crying coming to a sudden halt, "When I was that… That _thing _what did I do?"

"You aren't a killer," Sam says, assuming that's what he means.

"That's not what I asked. What did I do?" It sounds more like a command than a question. Sam doesn't answer because he isn't quite sure what to say.

"Nothing considered sinful," Castiel nods, thinking maybe that's a better response. It's not.

"That's not what I fucking _asked!" _

Before Sam can even throw a look in the angel's direction, Cas is telling him everything. He tries to sugarcoat it, really he does, but it's hard to make the things Dean told them nice.

"So I'm right, then? That wasn't a dream," His voice is sad and defeated, like a general calling in for a retreat, "Dammit, guys I'm—"

"If you say sorry," Sam warns, "If you say you're fucking sorry I swear to god—"

"None of it was true," Dean tries to say, "I didn't mean any of it. You shouldn't have even bothered listening to that bullshit."

"The only bullshit I hear is what you're saying now," his brother challenges.

"What?"

"Demons can't really lie like that because the truth is what causes the most chaos to ensue," Cas tries to explain, but neither of them are really paying attention to his ramblings on demon nature.

"Sam, man, none of that ever happened. I don't think of you like that. You're my brother, you can't possibly think I would think those things about us. I don't _blame _you."

"What about the night I left, Dean?" his voice comes out weak, "What happened then? Was that a lie?"

Dean's pallor gets paler with every passing second, and Cas can see that he's holding his breath.

"Sammy—"

"How could you do that?" Sam stand up then, towering over the two that are still sitting, "How could you just decide to check out like that? That's not what we do, Dean! What the hell would I have done without you?"

"If I remember correctly, you were doing just fine without me then!" It's a low blow, but Dean can't bring himself to regret saying it. Mostly, because he thinks it's true.

"So this is my fault?"

"Dammit, No. That's not what I— look there were other reasons. There were things I didn't.. Look, it was a long time ago. I'm fine now. It just—" He can't explain. Sam wouldn't understand the feeling he felt then, the one he still feels sometimes now, even if he won't admit it.

"No. No, you don't get to sit there and tell me you're fine. Not this time."

"Then what do you expect me to do? Pretend that I'm worse than I am? Look at me, I'm not even in any pain anymore. I'm cured. No more demon, no more—"

"I wasn't talking about your physical health, Dean."

Castiel seems just as surprised at this as Dean does.

"Wait, hold up, you aren't seriously implying that I'm—"

"Depressed? Yes, that's exactly what I'm 'implying.' It's not that hard to figure out. Look, we just have to go to the doctors, talk it over with a—"

"No," Dean scoffs, "Hell no. I'm not taking anti-depressants with all sorts of damn side effects just because of a phase I went through when I was a kid. That was, like, sixteen years ago."

"A phase?" Sam practically screams. He's in the state between shock and utter awe. Dean is being irrational about that whole thing. Sam knows his brother better than anyone else- he doesn't admit it when he needs help, not even to himself, "You can't honestly believe this is a _phase." _

"Was a phase. I'm not going through that anymore. It wasn't even serious, okay? It's not like I committed suicide."

"You put a revolver in your mouth!" Sam's trying his best not to tear up. He planned out this whole calm conversation, where he would tell Dean about how much he loves and supports him, how sorry he is, and they would go down to the hospital together and talk to a psychiatrist… But Dean won't have any of it. And Sam's getting frustrated, "I know you don't want to hear it. But please, _please, _just try it out. Just come with me and—"

"You're dragging me back there," Dean mutters. It makes Sam falter, to hear a response other than the 'go screw yourself' response he was expecting. His brother's voice is soft, defenseless even. It's not something he's used to, and not something he wants to _be _used to.

"What?"

"If you dig this all up again, I won't be able to block it out and those thoughts will come back. I've found my ways of forgetting the past, and dragging it all out in the open will force me to remember and I don't want to think like that anymore. I'm better than I was, and I'm trying my damned hardest not to… to be so destructive. If you treat me like a mental patient instead of the person you've known your whole life, I'll hate myself more than comprehendible to your innocent little ears. So do me a favor, and forget any of this ever happened, before I wipe your brain out for you. I'm sure there's a spell for that somewhere in the library in this place."

"Are you threatening me?"

"Are you going to listen?"

"Are you guys done?" Cas interrupts, irritated, "Because believe it or not, I have a say in this situation also."

"No you don't." Dean grumbles.

"I think you should listen to him, Sam," Cas says, earning a surprised look from both of them.

"Okay, maybe you do have an interesting opinion, go on." Dean smirks, only because he thinks he's getting his way. Castiel just rolls his eyes and tries not to acknowledge him, "I've looked over Dean all of his life. He's had high spots and low spots and even if I haven't seen some moments, I know the general actions and feelings he's gone through. I can vouch on his behalf that he is a grown man. When people are in need of depression medications and therapy—"

"Woah, no one said anything about therapy," Dean is again ignored.

"If the therapy is constructive, and helps the patient, they should receive it. But based off of your work, as well as the fact that his suicidal tendencies have been so few and far between, I don't think it would be wise to risk the implications the meds will come with. We cannot force him to give up hunting, and you wouldn't want a side effect to kick in halfway through a duel with a ghost. I suggest that we merely be more aware of the situation, instead of restricting him. Breathing down his neck will do nothing but anger him and I personally don't think therapy would be a helpful mechanism considering he cannot be truthful about eighty-five percent of his life or more. Therapy isn't beneficial to all who try it, anyways. We have to find what helps him, not what helps us. And if allowing him to cope with it himself is what he needs, we can give that to him and still let him know we're there for him."

"What a glorious monologue, Cas," Dean is the one to roll his eyes this time, but Cas can see it's just for show. There's emotion burning behind his sarcasm, through his bright green eyes that he can't quite identify, but has to be somewhere close to affection. Dean offers a little twitch of the mouth, and darts his eyes away from him before they start to water. He won't start crying this time. He's composed now

Sam doesn't try to press his argument, but he doesn't seem so convinced of it yet. He looks pissed, really, that no one's agreeing with him. Castiel's sure that if he could read Sam's mind at the moment, it would sound something like _'of course he's siding with Dean. He always sides with Dean. I know I'm right'. _ He just needs to cope, Cas decides, he needs to cope and process what's going on. Even Cas himself isn't quite sure what just happened, and Dean looks like a drunken man who was just told he had to recite the Declaration of Independence by memory. Confused as fuck, and ready to pass out.

"We should get some rest," Cas suggests. At first he thinks no one's heard him, but eventually they all make their way back to the bedrooms, sluggish and zombie-like, but they make it back all the same. Cas frowns when he realizes where Dean is heading.

"You can sleep in your own bed tonight," He informs him, watching as Dean tries to open the iron door of the blood-and-vomit smelling prison he's been locked in for far too long. After days and nights of dim lighting and humid air, Cas can't think of a reason Dean would willingly lock himself back into his own torture chamber. The confusion must be evident on his face, because Dean answers his silent questions with a sad nod of the head, trying to make himself sound as nonchalant as possible.

"I don't trust myself," he shrugs, continuing to struggle with his weakened body against the fifty-pound door.

"Then I'll draw a devil's trap under your bed and put a ring of salt around you. I'm not letting you stay in there for another second, let alone the rest of the night."

Dean offers him a bigger smile than before, along with a little laugh. And it's so good to hear a real laugh from his mouth, that Cas starts laughing, too. Actually, he's laughing so hard he can hardly breathe. No, really he can't _breathe. _It's like the pressure and angst has built itself up, and the only way ti let it out besides yelling is to just… _laugh _like crazed maniacs, which they are, or hyenas, which they sure as hell sound like with their too-loud cackles that ring through the empty rooms and bounce off the plain white walls around them.

And soon, they're sitting next to each other, leaned up against the wall, laughing their asses off together for no reason in the world. Sam is off brooding somewhere, and maybe they should care about that—which they kind of would if they weren't too preoccupied with trying to figure out how to take in oxygen around their cackling—but at this point they're done with the angst and misery. And whether this makes them insane or not, it feels good just to laugh. And laugh. And laugh.

Footsteps come down the hall, which is suddenly a hilarious-sounding noise. Everything is funny, in this moment, not that Cas has any logical reason for why that is.

"What are you guys—" Sam sounds irritated when he finds them at first, but when he takes in the sight in front of them, he can't help but let out an awkward little chuckle, too, "What's going on?"

"I—I—" A loud cackle cuts off whatever Dean thought he was going to say.

"Are you—" Sam's starting to break now, too, "Are you— high or something?"

"No-no!" Cas giggles, no seriously Cas _giggles, _"It's just— I—"

His eyes squint up, a single tear leaking from the corner of his eye. It's nice to cry for something good. This is the first laughing fit Cas as ever really experienced. Maybe it's because it's one in the morning, and they've been through hell and back together, or maybe the amount of relief in the room has it triggered. No matter the reason, it's not a feeling he'll ever be able to duplicate.

And, yeah, maybe they're all losing their goddamned minds.

But they're doing it together.

They quite literally laugh themselves to sleep. With Dean slumped, sitting upright against the wall, with Cas' sleeping head on his lap, the rest of his body strewn across the floor, and his legs sprawled across Sam who's lying unconscious on the floor. And, okay, maybe Cas isn't really asleep. Maybe he's just pretending to sleep, because he doesn't quite feel like wandering the halls alone while they are. And maybe it is just an excuse to lay with them, and be close to the one person he wasn't sure just twelve hours ago would live through the night.

Maybe Cas doesn't need to sleep, but he does need to rest. To block out the world and cool himself down. And if he is to fall asleep, he'll fall asleep with a deranged smile on his face.

Because Dean's back. He isn't quite better, but he's back. And in Castiel's book, any victory is a big victory. Especially when it comes to Dean Winchester.


	14. Chapter 14

"It just doesn't add up," Cas sighs, pursing his lips. His eyes dart nervously to the doorway of the room that Dean's sleeping in. Something isn't right about it, and Castiel's sure of it. He just isn't quite sure what exactly it is, and how to make Sam see it, too.

"You're seriously questioning this?" Sam asks, "I can't believe you, Cas. We finally catch a break after all of this shit and you can't accept that maybe everything's starting to go back to normal?"

"Please, you have to understand. I was just as much relieved as you were when he woke up, but don't you think it was a bit odd? I mean, we weren't even through with the last round of angel blood and he just popped up awake and conscious."

"So what? We successfully purified him. The last time I checked, that was a _good _thing."

"It was supposed to take approximately ten hours later than it did. He was 'cured' far too soon for it to have worked."

"Why did you say it like that?" Sam snaps, the genuine offense he was trying to avoid starting to show, now. Cas grimaces. This is not how he intended for this conversation to go, "He _is _cured. Don't put it in quotation marks around it like you don't believe it…" He takes a pause in his speech to look over his friend's sullen, guilty expression, "You do believe it, don't you? You know he's cured. You have to, you were there!"

"I can't Sam," Cas flails his hands in the air, exasperated, "I just can't bring myself to believe it. He was too coherent when he woke up. He should have been crying and vomiting and just as dazed and confused as he was before his transformation. He was suffering a fever of 104 degrees, which just magically broke through the course of the night. He should have internally bled out from the amount of salt we forced into his stomach. As much as it pains me to say it, he should have been in more pain than he was! It's just not physically possible for him to be _alive _let alone walking and talking and laughing!"

"Yeah, laughing himself into a coma."

"Which brings me to another point— he should have lapsed straight into a blackout just seconds after waking up a human. Instead, he ran down the hall and sat in the kitchen, conscious enough to hold a valid argument with us. A dying man shouldn't be able to _do _that."

"Then I guess he isn't dying anymore."

"The Mark didn't go away, though. If he was cured, it would be gone."

"Cain had it on him for billions of years, and he still learned to control it."

"Not until killing fleets of men in a Knights of Hell rampage, thousands of years later! We do not have thousands of years nor an entire army ready for him to slaughter it out of his system!"

Sam shakes his head, but the unease is beginning to set in. It's bone chilling, to make these realizations, not that he'll admit he's in doubt. He's definitely in denial, though.

"I don't know what you're suggesting here, man. It's a little fucked up, yeah, but this whole situation is a little fucked up, too."

"It's more than that," Castiel insists, but his argument doesn't seem to be doing much good against Sam's thick skull. He'd be willing to believe anything from his brother, as long as it was good. "It's unnatural."

"What is?" A deep voice rings from behind them, making them both jump at least a hundred feet in the air.

"Nothing," Cas says, too quickly, doing his best not to make eye contact with the innocent green eyes that stare him down_. 'Innocent,'_ he scoffs mentally_, that _thing_ inside him is anything but 'innocent.'_

"Dean, man, what're you doing out of bed?" Sam asks, ignoring the problem at hand, "You just got out of the torture chamber less than forty eight hours ago, you have to be resting, not grabbing a beer and kicking it on the couch with us."

Sam ignores the sinking feeling in his stomach when he notices that Dean hasn't been back for even two days, and he's already found himself to the nearest alcoholic beverage. Cas, however, isn't surprised. Dean or not, his body craves it. Not the alcohol, but the burn that comes with it when it slides down his throat, and the way it can rid him of his past with just a few sips. Part of him wishes alcohol would work that way on angels, too. Then maybe he could forget the last couple of weeks. Or months. Or everything.

"Can't sleep," Dean grunts in reply, snapping Castiel back to reality, "It's too damn frustrating having to lay in bed when you know your partners are out in the other room discussing war tactics."

"War tactics?" Sam asks, at the same time Cas asks;

"Partners?"

"You know," Dean opts for answering his brother's question instead of the angels', "The whole Demon-crown, angel war thing? I mean that Abaddon bitch was ganked, but that doesn't mean it's over."

"For you it is," Cas mutters. At first he doesn't think anyone heard him, but when he looks up he's met with Dean's face gawking in incredulity.

"Excuse me?"

"For you, it's over," he repeats, his eyes glaring, "You're too sick and too weak. I'm not letting you out to solve my issues with the angels, or the problematic situation of Crowley's renewed kingship until that mark is scraped from your body and I can rest assured you won't get yourself killed."

"I thought you were on my side. You know 'He's a grown man, we can't tell him what to do, he will always be a hunter…'" Dean goes on, all quoting him from the previous night.

"I didn't intend that rule to cover all the time. If you're being downright reckless, I have every right to prevent you from your own self-destruct."

Dean just glares at him, and for a second Cas thinks he might revert back to his 'evil twin', as Sam referred to the angry persona his brother took on because of the mark. He doesn't though, and relief washes over everyone. Maybe he is getting better. He can control it better. But that doesn't mean Cas is letting him any where's near a battlefield. It would be like putting a newly recovering alcoholic in a wine shop and passing out free samples. Any desire to kill has to be terminated, and handing him a gun and some demons isn't the way to do that.

"Maybe we should change the topic," Sam suggests tensely, his eyes darting back and forth between the two men having a stare down on either side of him. He would be the person to get stuck in the middle. He's kind of starting to regret his choice of seating.

"Fine," Castiel's response is short and terse, "I see you stepped out of the salt ring. Tell me, how did you do that without burning off your feet? Most monsters can't withstand salt."

"What?" Sam chokes on his water, "We put out the salt as a precaution. He's not a _demon!" _

"Yeah, man, cool it." Dean looks away. Cas sees it as an act of uneasiness, because he's catching onto his little lie. Sam however, is 100% sure that he's trying not to show how upset he is over being called a 'monster.' He tries to stop Cas from speaking again, but shooting him an alarmed, agitated look is apparently not obvious enough for Cas to get the memo. With a squint and a head tilt, he's back to his little interrogation.

"I suppose you would not mind drinking this for me then," He extends his hands out, offering—more like forcing— Dean a glass of water, with the rosary beads still sunken to the bottom.

"You made holy water for me to drink?" Dean arches a single eyebrow, trying his best not to get offended.

"It shouldn't matter if it's holy or not. Either way you should be able to drink it, correct? Unless you're inhuman at the moment."

"You've got to be kidding, Cas."

"I only let Dean and Sam call me Cas, and you aren't either of them, so I suggest you shut up."

The amount of hurt on Dean's face makes him almost want to take the words back. Almost.

"I don't know why you're getting so angry. I legit came out to get a drink and go back to bed."

"Then drink this."

"I'm not going to be _tested _on like a damn rat, Cas! I was having issues a little while ago, but I'm fine now. Can't you just trust me enjoy the fact that everything's fine?"

"Trust _you?" _Cas scoffs, his voice bitter, "I highly doubt that would ever happen. Actually, after what you've done? I'm _sure_ I never will."

At first, Dean's reaction is open-mouth shock, but as it sinks in, he understands. Cas doesn't think he's _Dean. _He's under the impression he's still a demon, somewhere deep down. And you know what? Maybe Dean deserves it, demon or not. Even as a human, he was never really all that trustworthy.

"Cas, what the hell is wrong with you?" Sam asks, but Dean just nods acceptingly. Again, Cas wonders if maybe he's wrong about this. He can't afford to be wrong about this. If he's wrong, he could quite certainly be destroying every ounce of their relationship in one conversation.

"Look I'll drink your special angel-made Jesus water if it'll make you happy," Dean mutters, "Ya know since having a soul is apparently something you don't think I'm capable of anymore." He looks more embarrassed than angry, and it makes Sam's heart hurt to see him so uncomfortable in a place that's supposed to be home, with the people that're supposed to be family. He doesn't think most people would be so comfortable, though, having their best friend accuse them of not being a human just hours after they were cured of that same problem.

_If he's actually been cured, _Sam hates himself for thinking, but Castiel's really gotten into his head. He's starting to see it, now. The not so Dean-like way he's walking. He tries to list excuses in his head like '_Well maybe it's because he still doesn't feel well' _or, _'he was in a torture chamber yesterday, we can't expect him to be happy here' _Only he doesn't really look happy anywhere. And it's been like that for a while, too.

Both Cas and Sam watch closely, eyes filled with scrutiny as Dean lifts the glass to his lips. Sam's not really sure what they're supposed to be expecting. It's not like he genuinely believes Dean isn't better. The angel, however, knows exactly what he's looking for. A flicker of the eyes, a painful grimace or groan. Even the slightest twitch will have Dean pinned to the floor under his weight, the demon proof handcuffs around his wrists ready for his next dose of angel blood.

But Dean doesn't even flinch. He just takes a gulp of water. And then another. Actually he just guzzles down the whole drink in one swallow, slamming the glass loudly on the table in an '_I fucking told you so' _kind of way.

"Would you like me to lick the rosary beads, too?" He snaps.

"I—" Cas doesn't know what to say, "I'm sorry I genuinely believed—"

"Yeah, I know," Dean huffs, "Trust me, okay? I know."

"We are glad to have you again, though," he tries to soften the issue at hand with a compliment, "We were falling apart without you."

"And I was falling apart _because_ of you," Dean bites his tongue, trying to take the sentence back, but it's too late. He's already said it.

"Fair enough," Cas nods sadly, "That's an understandable point. I wonder if maybe you feel—"

"Please don't make me do this right now," Dean complains, shaking his head, "No chick flick moments. We already had one of those this week. I'm just done with the angst, okay? I'm done with it. I'm going to bed."

"C'mon man. Let's just talk about it," Sam pleads. He's never really been one to enjoy or take part in other people's arguments, but mostly he's just afraid of what might be triggered if his brother decides to go to bed angry.

"No, Sam! I don't want to 'talk.' For once in my life, I just want to go to bed."

"I thought you said you couldn't sleep."

"I guess you guys tired me out enough with your emotional little tests," The glance he throws as Cas is a little more than tense.

"I _am _sorry." Cas repeats, but Dean just waves him off, retreating to his room with the obnoxious slam of his door.

"You really made him feel like shit, you know."

It takes a second before Sam gets a response. Cas is looking over the corner of the doorway, making sure Dean's gone and out of hearing range before he speaks.

"Yes," he says slowly, "But if my theory is correct, he deserves it."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Sam demands, exasperated, "We're seriously not over this? After that whole episode?"

"You didn't notice?" Cas asked, waiting for Sam's reply that takes too long to come, "Come on! Really?"

"What?" Sam practically yells.

"His mark," Cas clarifies, as if he's talking to a small child, "It was _glowing._ When he drank the water it-_" _

"You're crazy."

"Well, maybe," he admits with a bitter chuckle, "But I'm also right. That's not Dean."

Sam gapes at him in utter disbelief, like he's just showed him his true form with four faces.

"I can't believe you," he mutters, "he came in and you reamed him out for things that he couldn't help, proceeded to do tests on him, and now you still honestly believe you were right?"

"He called us his partners, Sam. He said we were his 'Partners.'"

"And?"

"And Dean doesn't say that. He's always referred to us as a team, or a family. Something more intimate than _partners." _

"You're going to come to the conclusion that he's a monster based off of the way he described your relationship in a conversation?"

"That among other pieces of evidence."

Sam huffs, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He looks up, his eyes shining with disappointment and muted frustration.

"Well then you aren't the person I thought you were. He's your friend, Cas. You aren't supposed to be nitpicking for his flaws."

Cas doesn't try to stop him from getting up and leaving for the office to cool down. Maybe Sam does need to think things through. And maybe, when he does, he'll see what's going on.

"Don't say I didn't warn you," Cas grumbles, closing his eyes. He has to pray, or he'll never be able to concentrate. But the words that whisper from his mouth hold no meaning. His determination in finding the 'real' Dean is the only thing keeping him calm. Sam will always take Dean's side, and both of them know it. If Dean swears up and down he's okay then, to Sam, he must be okay. But Cas knows better. So he sits, and thinks, and prays. But, mostly, he pretends he can't see the beaming red of the mark under his best friend's shirt burned into his memories, and ignores the possibility that he's very, very wrong.


	15. Chapter 15

Castiel is just a paranoid son of a bitch.

At least, that's what Sam tries telling himself those first few days after Dean's return to humanity. _He's fine, _Sam thinks, _Castiel's just gone insane. _And it's not his fault, really, that he's gone off the wall a little. The amount of stress they've been through should provoke a little bit of paranoia. But the way Cas goes about it is what's scaring him. Salting the doors and the windows, purifying any and every liquid substance he can possibly come across. Hell, the angel had started making holy _beer _instead of holy water— because lord knows if there's a demon inside Dean, he'll be heading towards the alcohol before he even thinks about touching a glass of water. But there isn't a demon in Dean, and Cas is just a paranoid son of a bitch.

Right?

He's passing all the tests their little friend keeps setting out for him. He drinks the beer, and passes the salt lines, and eats every bite with a silver fork. So why does Sam have a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach? Maybe because beer's still the only think he can manage to keep down, and he hardly ever uses the little silver fork because he hardly ever eats. He never really has to pass over the salt lines much, because he doesn't get around anymore. Dean just stays in bed and sleeps and pretends that everything's fine when Sam can see at first glance that he's really fucking not.

"Dean?" he knocks again on the closed wooden door, half expecting an answer, but knowing he won't get one. Dean hasn't opened up to him since, well, a while. They were fighting before he got sick and now— well now, it kind of feels like they're still fighting, and Sam can't figure out why.

He knows neither of them are in very good shape with Cas at the moment who's currently out at the 'supermarket' which is code for stalking up on salt and heading to the library for books on Demonology. As if Sam wouldn't find his fresh, plastic library card, newly purchased for one purpose and one purpose only: "Save Dean."

Who, Sam feels obligated to add, doesn't need saving. He just needs bed rest and fluids and maybe some Tylenol or something. But even Sam knows he's just in denial. All Dean ever needs is help— mental or otherwise— and that's all he never seems to get.

Not this time, though. This time, Sam will make sure he gets every but of help he needs, whether he wants it or not. And so far, it doesn't really sound like he wants it at all.

"Dean!" he yells this time, banging the door with his fist.

"What?" Comes his first-ever reply, disgruntled half-awake.

"Answer the door for once in your life," Sam mutters, letting himself in. The sound of salt piles pushing away as the door opens makes both of them roll their eyes.

"Tell Cas to stop spreading that shit all over the place," Dean grumbles from his spot on the bad, his limbs tangled in covers, "I swear to god, I'm finding salt grains in my hair, nowadays."

"You could tell him yourself if you actually tried getting out of bed every once and a while."

Dean takes a second to look his brother over. Sam towers above him, with his arms crossed and the infamous Winchester scowl plastered to his face.

"Wow, make up your mind!" Dean huffs, throwing his arms up in the air, and plopping himself backwards onto the bed, "You want me to rest, then you want my ass out of bed… I don't know what you want me to do anymore!"

"I want you to get better," Sam's managed to keep calm so far, and he isn't breaking now. Even if his obnoxious brother is really, really starting to piss him off with his carelessness.

"Why do you think I haven't even tried looking for jobs yet? I'm 'resting.'" he fires back, the last word a pretty on-point impersonation of Sam's words.

"This isn't resting. Sitting in your room and moping isn't helping anyone."

"Moping?" Dean objects, "This is so _not_ moping!"

"Check a mirror for that little baby pout on your face and say that again, because you're definitely moping."

"Shuddup," Dean mumbles, closing his eyes and curling back into the mattress.

"No," Sam scoffs, "No way. C'mon, ass out of bed."

Dean only waves him off, swatting his hands away before they can turn him over to face his annoying baby brother.

With a half-hearted smirk, Sam pulls the sheets right out from under him, a little grunt escaping his lips as Dean fights back. When Sam pulls, Dean pulls back ten times harder. Even a bit weakened, Dean's definitely the muscle in the family.

"C'mon," he grunts, "Up ya go."

"Fuck no. It's cold out there. 'M staying here in the covers."

"You're being immature."

"I'm being a good patient and staying in bed."

"Don't make me call Cas," Sam warns, taking out the big guns, "If I tell him you're acting up, he'll zap in, in like two seconds flat with handcuffs on your wrist and haul your ass into the living room for interrogation."

"Why not the dungeon?" Dean snaps with sarcasm, "That's the perfect room for that kind of stuff right? I mean, I don't know what it's like to interrogate in there, but it sure seemed effective when I was being questioned."

It's a low blow, but it works. Sam stops pulling away his sheets and takes a small step back, the sinking feeling in his stomach growing. It's a good thing Dean's turned away again to curl up facing the wall, because if they could see each other's faces in that moment, it would only add to their angst.

"I don't know how many times I have to apologize," Sam stares down at his feet, "We didn't really have a choice. You would have done th—"

"I swear to fucking god," Dean is still facing the opposite wall, refusing to turn around and look at Sam, but his voice is deathly serious, "If you tell me I would've 'done the same thing', I'll kill you right here, right now. Because I would never even think about torturing you. Demon or not. I would use the angel blood for a cure, sure, but I wouldn't shove salt down your throat for breakfast, lunch and dinner first… Not that I didn't deserve it." He whispers the last part, about deserving the torture. He doesn't think Sam hears him, but when he does risk a glance behind his shoulder, Sam is absolutely _livid. _

"Don't say that about yourself," he says in a dark, angry voice about a thousand times more frightening than if he were yelling instead, "Don't think you could ever deserve any pain that you've gone through because you don't, and you have to know that because I never made that clear before."

"Look, Sam, just because you and Cas diagnosed me with depression or whatever doesn't mean…"

"This has nothing to do with that," Sam glares, "Depressed, or not. Dying, or not. Young, old, happy, sad… _Human, _or not. You aren't worthless, Dean. No one deserves the kind of pain we've been through. Especially not you."

Dean doesn't know how to respond, so he just doesn't. He just kind of nods, and smiles, and looks away, like he thinks Sam's lying to him or something. Sam longs for the day he can say something like that, and see that Dean actually believes it.

"Can we…" Dean sighs, "Can we go back to the torture chamber? Just for a little? I just want to see…"

Sam can see how much he's struggling for words. He doesn't have a good explanation for why he wants to see that place he was more or less captivated in for weeks. But Sam gets it. It's like victims of kidnapping who go back to their abduction sites, or spirits who go back to their deathbeds to look back. It's not pleasant, but it's necessary to move on. All Sam wants is for them to move on. The vulnerability in Dean's voice only adds to his will to take him there. Any feeling Dean shows him is something he has to act on, before it gets blocked out and pushed under a rug for all of his emotional eternity.

"Sure," Sam does his best to smile, playfully tugging the covers off, "I win," he winks, waving the sheet.

"Bitch," Dean smiles.

"Jerk."

The walk down the hall feels like it goes on for miles. Like they'll be walking to the huge iron door for all of infinity. But they don't, of course. They get there within seconds, and Sam hauls open the metal contraption-like door to let them in. Dean pauses at the entrance, taking in the sight. No one's been in since he got out. Not even to clean it, which was definitely a mistake, looking back on it now. There are still little splatters of blood dotting the ground that Sam can envision him coughing up, hitting the concrete floor with a little '_pat, pat, pat,' _of dripping from his mouth. A steady trail of crimson leads, dried and dark, to the exit from where Dean had dragged himself out the night he woke up again.

The stench of bile hits their senses from the very corner of the room, where the bucket is sitting, as well as what never made it to the bucket starting to mold on the floor. Sam gags, but doesn't allow himself to get sick and contribute to the already awful condition of the room— more like chamber, with its dingy, thick air— and make matters worse. As if they could really get much worse. Sharp, mean looking tools and razor-like devices still sit in a messy pile of weaponry on the large tin cart Cas wheeled in. Syringes and knives and little vials of too-dark-to-be-human blood litter the cool metal tabletop.

"Is that mine?" Dean whispers, picking up one of the vials, "Or Cas'?"

"He said we needed a sample of yours," Sam shrugs guiltily, "You didn't seem to like it much when we extracted it."

Dean nods understandingly, trying to blow it off as something that doesn't really matter even though it's obvious that, to him, it matters a hell of a lot. It's not his fault he prefers his blood in his body, rather than in test tubes. Sam can't really blame him for that one.

He traces a fingertip across the cool metal cart that squeaks a little bit when he accidentally rolls it forward. It's the only other sound besides their breathing, which isn't saying much since neither of them are really breathing at all. Dean would tell him he's holding it in so he doesn't have to smell the vomit, but Sam knows it's because all of his breath has been taken away, along with his blood and his happiness.

"Is that where I was?" Dean nods to one of the metal chairs, sitting directly in the center of the dimly-lit room.

"Yeah, but Dean—"

It's too late to stop him. He's already sitting himself down on the fold out chair with a grunt, making Sam realize that he's still too fucking sore to sit down properly.

"Comfy," he grins sarcastically, wiggling his butt in the chair.

"I bet," Sam lets out a breathy scoff, trying to sound playful but knowing his attempts are falling flat. He sits down in the other chair, the one he's come way too familiar with, and closes his eyes with a sigh.

That's his mistake, closing his eyes.

Well, actually, his mistake was letting Dean in here at all. No, he made a mistake before that, too. If he's starting at the beginning, his mistake was actually getting Dean out of bed this morning. He went wrong the second he let his brother out of the handcuffs, a few days ago. He went wrong when he didn't listen to Castiel.

Paranoid, out of his mind Castiel.

That was his biggest mistake yet.

A body is lunged onto him, wrestling him down into the chair. They both fall off, toppling to the ground with a yelp. Dean's large hands grasp his, pulling them not-so-gently behind him. He struggles and kicks, but his legs are pulled down, too. They hit the side of the cart, the back of Sam's head starting to bleed. There's a clattering of tools on the ground, knocked over by their struggle. The weight is lifted off of him, and Sam bolts for the door the second he manages to scramble to his feet, but Dean gets to the doorway first, with an angel blade in hand.

"Sit in the chair," Dean growls. He starts to object, to demand something along the lines of _'what the hell was that, why did you just try to tackle me and beat the living shit out of me?'_ but something in Dean's expression makes him stop cold. And that something is not very Dean-like at all, "Sam, if you know what's best for you, you'll sit in the fucking chair."

He's glowering, his body language screaming_ 'ready to kill.' _It makes Sam more nervous than he's ever felt around his brother before.

"What?" Sam blinks, confused and disoriented, but then it clicks. Actually, it more like flickers. Dean's eyes, to be exact, are the 'it' that flicker. And they flicker black.

"No," He groans out pitifully, "No, no this isn't happening."

If he thought he felt sick before, he's in for a rocky night.

"Sorry, kid," Dean, or what he thought was Dean, Smiles a toothy grin, "Now, if you would just sit in the chair so we can proceed?"

"What're you going to do, torture me?" Sam asks bitterly. Ge wouldn't blame him for that, though. It would only be fair, getting even with his torturer with a blade.

"This is torture enough, isn't it? Seeing your big brother like this?" there's no answer needed, :That's what I thought." He finishes when Sam doesn't reply.

"How did you do it? How are you in him? I mean all of the tests Cas gave you and I swear—" Sam rambles, squinting. He's trying to do the calculations in his head, but it's just not adding up.

"One question at a time," Dean chuckles darkly, "And not until you sit still."

Finally, Sam has no real choice but to oblige. Dean pulls the rope seemingly out of nowhere, yanking it taut with a _snap. _The sound makes Sam blanch.

"Have you been like this the whole time?" he whispers, looking down at the concrete. He ignores the way his voice cracks when he speaks.

"This?" Dean gestures to his face, his eyes back to their natural green, "Nah. I was just… hiding. Don't worry, all that brotherly shit you two had was all him. I'm just like his," he searches for the right word, "_conscious. _Jiminy Cricket, at your service. Only I play with more than just an umbrella." He flips the angel blade in his hand for effect, "He had no idea I was in here. I mean, he knows I exist. I'm him, of course. He just thinks he's more in control than this part of us. It's kind of cute, thinking he can just push away the dark part of his mind like that."

"Get out of him."

"Weren't you listening before? I just explained… God, no wonder you dropped out of Stanford. Were the classes a bit challenging for you? Sam, buddy, I'm a part of him. That's why I can get away with all that shit. Drinking holy water's painless, because I'm not in control. He thinks he's pure, and I let him," Dean shrugs, like they're talking about a baseball game rather than his brother's impending soul, "It's all just psychological mumbo-jumbo. I mean you have demon juice in you, too, remember? And you can still pass over salt lines, because you're mostly human. I am, too. I'm just… stronger than you."

"He doesn't want you living in him," Sam shakes his head. Dean just laughs at him.

"Let me tell you a secret," He leans over, stage whispering in his ear, "He doesn't want any part of him to be living at all."

"That's not true."

"Are you the one inside of our head?" He asks, eyebrows raised, "No, I didn't think so."

Sam doesn't speak as Dean wraps the white, fraying rope around his wrists. He could probably fight back if he was determined enough to get away, but he isn't. He's done fighting Dean. He's done fighting at all.

"Please don't do this," Sam begs, his eyes starting to brim, with tears, "I trusted you. I _defended_ you."

"Sorry, Sammy," Dean smirks as his eyes flicker black, tying the last knot in the rope binding his brother to the cool metal chair.

"It's Sam," he spits back in a cold, dead voice.


	16. Chapter 16

Sam refuses to talk to him, to even acknowledge him, so Dean runs his mouth relentlessly with sarcasm dripping from his tongue. Occasionally, he flickers his black eyes open, just to see the particular look of depression on Sam's face when he does. It thrills him, the emotional pain in his eyes. Sam can see it even as Dean picks up the blade.

"Now, I know I said I wouldn't torture you," he smiles, "And I won't. But god, do I wonder what you would do if I were to torture myself…"

Sam cringes. The sick, masochistic tone in Dean's voice isn't a pleasant one.

The angel blade is brought slowly to the bottom of his brother's neck, and a small little incision is cut into the base of his throat. Nothing fatal, but just enough for little beads of red to form along his collarbone.

"Please stop," Sam chokes, immediately regretting it. Any response from him will only fuel Dean's actions. His pleading will only make matters worse.

"What, Sammy doesn't like the idea of a little blood?" Dean sneers, letting the blade slide across the side of his ribs through his shirt. This cut is deeper, and Sam watches with a churning stomach as the green fabric soaks black with blood. He tries to shut his eyes, but Dean forces them open every time he does. He's almost grateful for the tears that blur his vision, because they keep him from seeing anything more than blurry shapes as Dean brings the weapon to his wrists.

Sam can't ignore the fact that those aren't the first scars to be there.

And when he's actually started crying, full on sobbing, Dean finally lets him be. He reaches a handkerchief of sorts and ties it around Sam's mouth. It's the equivalent of duct taping his mouth shut, only more painful. Trying to sob around the cloth in his mouth makes him dry-heave. With a little wink and a smirk, his brother is gone. As if he was ever really there at all.

Dean leaves him alone in the dark, damp room and Sam's left to wonder if this is how utterly betrayed Dean had felt when he'd gone dark side with Ruby in the beginning of all this apocalypse shit .If he listens carefully, he can hear him pacing in the other room, his steel-toes boots hitting the wooden kitchen floors. He focuses on that, pretending that it's a djinn that has him captured, or a ghoul maybe. Anything but Dean guarding him.

But Dean _is_ guarding him, and no amount of daydreaming will fix that. His big brother isn't coming to save him, because his big brother is the one who has him locked up. And he doesn't even really want Cas to come home and save him, either, because then what happens to Dean? It feels like no one's ever really wondered that before, _what will happen to Dean, _because everyone's always been so focused on themselves. Sam worried about Sam, Cas worried about Cas… But Dean? Dean just worried about them, too. So who was left to worry about Dean?

Sam shudders guiltily in his permanent spot in his chair. The metal is cold and hard against his skin, uncomfortable in the least. But it's bearable. There are no bullets or knives. There are no hurtful words being thrown around. If anything's going to torture Sam, it'll be the monotony of staring at a blank grey wall, smelling nothing but his brother's blood beneath him.

The pacing in the hall stops.

It's the first new thing Sam can detect since being left here. He can hear murmurs of speech in the other room, but he can't tell what they're saying. The tone is casual, maybe a little tense. And then it clicks— Cas is home.

Sam thinks about screaming, but the gag tied over his mouth would muffle it, and it just seems like too much effort. They once had a vessel who tried so hard to talk around the one they'd stuffed in her mouth that she'd vomited. He still has too much pride to let Cas find him covered in his own puke. _You mean like Dean? _His conscious asks him. His own mind is really an asshole sometimes.

No matter how hard he tries to hear what they're saying, he can't. And the harder he tries, the more his head hurts, so eventually he just stops trying. He doesn't listen in, he doesn't tune them out, he just sits and waits for a change in tone or volume— anything to indicate that maybe Cas has caught on. Maybe Cas has realized he's been right all along. It never happens. They just keep chatting about god knows what.

Sam should've listened to him. Actually, Sam has had a lot of things he should have done, never did and probably never will. It's a pretty endless list, too, and this just adds to it.

1. He never thanked Dean for making him dinner every night until he left for collage. He should have at least apologized for being a pain in the ass about every meal he tried to prepare, demanding spaghettio's or maybe hotdogs instead of the actual nutritious meal he was given. Hell, Dean should've seen him those first couple weeks of school away from him and dad. He couldn't even boil water right without Dean, let alone prepare a pack Ramen noodles. He microwaved every other meal that entered his mouth, and went out for everything else. McDonald's stops tasting good after a few days, and working it all off is a pain in the ever living neck. He never called to tell Dean how much he missed six-am pit stops for egg sandwiches and chicken noodle soup when dad was away.

2. He didn't call. When he was nine and 'ran away' while dad was gone and Dean was supposed to be watching him, he didn't call either of them to tell him he was okay. He should have, but he didn't. Because he was an ignorant, idiotic kid. He scared the shit out of both of them, and Dean still won't talk about what happened between him and dad while he was gone. He's not so sure he wants to know anymore, anyways.

3. He didn't call. When he left them for Sanford, he didn't bother to check in. 'A clean break is the easiest kind' was his defense, trying to convince himself that not talking to them at all would be easier than awkward monthly phone calls. He didn't know how much Dean needed him, not until he realized dad had separated from him just a few months after Sam's departure. Maybe if he'd known how alone his brother felt, he would have called, instead of answered. Dean always used to call him. Admittedly, Sam always used to ignore them.

4. He lied. Sam was always lying, _is _always lying. About something. Whether it's something serious like the demon blood or Ruby or—

Shouts come from the other room, interrupting Sam's inner monologue of things he has to apologize for when— if— he gets his brother back. It's not so much yelling as it is animal noises, things said most definitely not in English. Yelps of pain and groans of surprise. They're fighting it out in there. Punches are being thrown.

Someone is winning.

Sam can't tell who.

If only he could have heard their conversation just moments ago…

"Dean? Sam?" Cas had called out when the door clicked shut behind him.

"In here," he heard the clink of an empty glass on the wooden table. Dean was up. Dean was drinking. Again.

"Where is your brother?" Castiel had asked, with a roll of his eyes. He hadn't entered the living room where Dean sat, but he could hear him just fine from the kitchen. Truth be told, he was afraid to be alone in the same room as him, knowing how rocky their relationship had been getting lately.

"Hell if I know. He went out a little while ago. I think he was getting me a leash, if that's not what you bought already." The words were intended to make him feel bad, and they did.

Cas couldn't ignore the guilt doubling in his stomach. If he was being honest, he had actually debated it. It wouldn't have been difficult, to carve little demon traps into the plastic rings that held together the body-leash, or draw them in with marker onto the cloth bands. Leashing Dean probably wouldn't have gone over well, though. There would have been blood, and it wouldn't have been his.

"I would not do anything to purposely harm you, you know," Cas tried the gentle approach for the first time since the aggressive method was quite obviously not working, "You have to understand that any tampering I do with what you consume or touch is for—"

"Yeah, yeah. Precautions only. I don't know, man. You seem pretty hell bent on proving I'm a monster."

"I don't think you're a monster," Cas whispered, taking a step into the living room. But once he looked over at Dean, His tone immediately changed dark and vengeful, "I know you are."

"What?"

"How long have you been in him?" he muttered, trying to remain calm.

"I have no Idea what you're talking about. Look, you're obviously not in a good place with me right now and I get that but—"

"I can see your true face, Dean," the angel spit, with fury in his eyes. Dean stood up from the leather sofa, looking Cas dead in the eyes.

"And I can see yours," he smirked, breaking the act.

They stood like that for a while, with their shoulders squared off and tense, eyes looking over each other thoroughly. Cas scrutinized every inch of his face, taking in the dreadful sight before him. His eyes, though not changed on the outside shown unmistakably black to Castiel. Horns, cracked and sharp, grew from the back of his head, his face distorted and angry. His hands were rough and coated with invisible blood, only perceptible for angels and demons to see. The semi-metaphorical blood could only mean one thing— Sin.

Dean, however, could finally withstand to see Cas' true form. Blue and white light, glowing from around him, his eyes a matching, piercing sapphire. Even if this grace wasn't his own, Dean could sense the power and warmth of it on his skin. He didn't like how much he yearned for the warmth to touch him.

It made him want to be good and wicked both at the same time.

"You're beautiful, Cas," he couldn't help but breathe out.

"So are you," Cas whispered back, and he meant it. Because underneath the murk of evil and blood and horns and unfaithfulness, he could see just the faintest light coming from his chest. It slowly grew, shining brighter with familiarity. Cas saw this light every day, but this time was different. This light was reaching out to him. This light was desperately clawing at Castiel, begging for the redemption Cas had given him the first time.

This light, was his soul.

Somewhere, Dean Winchester was still in there, and he was begging to get out.

"Where is your brother?" Cas repeated in a growl, much less casually than he did when he first entered the bunker.

"Don't know."

"Yes, I believe you do," Cas raised a menacing eyebrow, "Now I'm only asking one more time, and I expect the honest answer. Where is Sam?"

"Nowhere you'll ever get to him."

"Now, now," The angel's intensity grew, "what did I say about lying?"

And before he could clearly calculate the outcome in his head, Cas had thrown himself on top of his friend, or at least what used to be his friend, and brought down his fist as hard as he could. The man writhed beneath him, and Cas had to fight his natural instinct to bring his hand down and smite the undetectable demon right then and there. But even if his instincts saw him as a demon, his heart told him it was his family. He wasn't undetectable— He was Dean.

He struggled under Castiel's weight, threats and shouts erupting from his lips. Cas felt his hand make contact with Dean's jaw with a satisfying _crack. _He would feel bad for it later, but later hadn't been now. Now, all Cas wanted to do was kick out the darkness plaguing his friend. To cure him, before it became more out of hand than it already was. All he really needed was another dose or two of his blood. They'd been so close to actually curing him when he tricked them into letting him go. They could fix this.

He could fix this.

And that's where they are now, rolling around on the living room floor, knocking over tables and crashing into walls. Sam can hear them, not that Castiel is even thinking about the younger Winchester at the moment. He's too focused on his fight with the elder.

Cas thinks he's winning.

Cas is wrong.

They're back up on their feet the second he can manage to hold Dean up, with Cas dragging the bleeding man up to finish the job, lifting him the best he can to get him to the dungeon room for imprisonment. But before he knows what's coming at him, an angel blade nicks him in the arm, and he falters backwards in surprise. Immediately, he's shoved through the door of the panic room that slams shut in finality.

"Let me out!" Cas bangs his fists on the iron door, "Dammit, Dean! Why can't I get out?"

"I've done some… redecorating," comes his reply from the other side of the wall. To his horror, when Castiel looks around, Enochian symbols are written all over the walls in sharpie marker, others carved into them with a pocket knife. Dozens of them, all to prevent him from leaving. And, obviously, it's working quite well.

"I'll burn the place down!" Cas threatens, but his reply this time comes from behind him. A muffled gurgling noise makes him turn around.

Sam.

He's over to him in a second, ripping off the cloth around his mouth.

"That's not a good idea," Sam flinches, nodding his head at the ground, "He has the room lined with holy oil. You'll be trapped forever. Literally."

By the time Cas manages to untie the cord from Sam's now rope-burned wrists, tears are steadily flowing from the human's eyes. Cas almost wants to call him a boy, the way his vulnerability makes him look so… young.

"You were right," Sam chokes, trying to calm himself down, "Fuck, Cas, you were right."

This doesn't feel like an appropriate 'I-told-you-so' moment, so he just nods, sitting cross legged on the floor next to Sam's chair.

"What do you suppose we do now?" He asks, looking up at him.

"We get my brother back," Sam shrugs, but something tells him it won't be so easy this time.


	17. Chapter 17

He paces from corner to corner of the room as it slowly closes in on him, his fingernails scraping down his face, like he's trying to tear his own skin off. Like he's trying to claw his way out of his own body. And in a way, he kind of is. He has to find a way out.

_Dean_, the echo of his own voice whispers in his ear, _Dean, Dean, Dean… _

He spins around, but nothing's there. Nothing is ever there. He's alone again. He'll always be alone.

_Having fun, Dean? I am. _

"Get out here you little bitch!" He finds himself yelling, but no one answers. No one visible, at least.

_Out where? Do you know where you are, Dean? Dean, it's all your fault. Dean, you've lost yourself again. So where are you? _

"I-I… I'm…" But he doesn't know. No matter how hard he looks, the walls are about as blank as his head is full. He wishes he could take his thoughts and splatter them on the too-white walls to stain with red and black instead of the markings in his head.

_Do you know where your brother is? _

He shivers. Because, yes, he does know. And suddenly, he knows where he is, too.

"Bunker," he stutters out, "This is my bedroom."

_Looks cozy, doesn't it? Haven't been here in a while. They had us all tied up. _

"Not their fault," he chokes out, even though the dull headache is sharpening, drilling a piercing pain through his skull. Something's in his head again, and he's afraid maybe it's been there all this time, burrowing itself a home in the deepest corners of his mind.

_Why don't you take a nap? You could use a little rest. _

These thoughts are persuasive, tempting even. The voice coos and drips with smooth affection, too sweet to be real. He knows it's a trap. This _thing, _this part of him… It wants him to sleep for reasons far more selfish. And Dean knows it, this time. How when he sleeps, he's lost. When he sleeps, this other part of him takes over. So he doesn't sleep. He only paces, and scrapes at his cheeks, and pretends he isn't going insane.

_Not tired? I know you're tired. You haven't slept in days. You just sit in the back and scream until you break through like this. But I want control, now, Dean. You're going to put me back in control. _

He's tired. He's so fucking tired. He thinks his legs will give out, but if he stops moving then he'll pass out, and then who's supposed to stop the demon?

Who's going to stop _him? _

He doesn't like what he does when he closes his eyes. He doesn't particularly like this, either. But if he's going to hate his life, he'll do it on his own terms. Even if he can feel his control slipping by the second. Even if his heartbeat is racing to catch up with his muddled brain at a million miles an hour.

He will stay in control.

Because if he doesn't, then Sam won't get out. Cas won't get out. He will never get out of his head.

And his head is a scary place to be, especially when it's this dark. Dean has decided that he hates the dark. And maybe, when this is all over and done with, he'll even sleep with a nightlight on, and just learn to ignore every taunt his little brother has for him. That is, is he ever lets himself sleep again.

If he ever gets to hear Sam's voice again.

"Sammy?" He yells, coughing out a muffed groan of pain as the darkness pressed to the back of his head crawls forward, taking over what little control of his body he still has. He tries to push it back again, but all he can really do is slow it down, "Sam!"

"Dean?" There's a muffled response from behind the torture-chamber's doors. He knows he put them in there. He knows it's his fault. What he doesn't know, however, is how to get them out safely.

"Dean, what is going on?" He hears a deeper voice call out. Cas. At least Sam has Cas. Sure, his demon-self isn't nice enough to feed or bathe them, but at least they have company, right? Wrong. There's no good way to twist this into a positive. Not that he's regularly an optimist or anything. Optimism was always Sam's job, what, with all that talk of the future and hope and religion. Before Cas, Dean probably would have laughed at the thought of heaven and angels. Actually, he did laugh. Hope was a thing of fiction, and still kind of is in Dean's eyes. And there's no fucking way he's getting into heaven. Not after this, at least. So, no, Dean isn't really an optimist. But at the moment, neither is his brother.

"Just let us out Dean!" Sam pleas, "just open the door, this isn't you!"

And just like that, he's slipping. He tries to reach for the door, tries to grab it and pull it open, but he's too far gone. He's teetering involuntarily back into a memory.

_Dean, open the door! _

He hears, but it isn't his own voice this time. This is just another memory loop, triggered by a poor choice of words and a clever demon in his head.

_Dean, please! It's Christmas, just open the door!_

It's Sammy, little baby-boy Sammy from the year Dean turned ten, pounding on the other side of a dusty old door. On Dean's side, little dollar store Christmas lights line the walls, and unwrapped presents sit under the couch that he's stapled browned leaves to in an effort to make it look more tree-like. And he remembers this— their little holiday tradition. Sam would sit in one room while Dean set out the presents in the other, and Sam would have to sing the Twelve Days of Christmas song before his big brother unlocked the door and let him open up his toys. It gave Dean time to set everything out and, even if he wouldn't admit it, he kind of liked hearing Sammy sing. It was cute, listening to his off-key, out of pitch voice, both loud and obnoxious— but smiling. Singing always used to make him smile.

Even now, Dean misses it. Both the singing and the smiles that never seem to come these days. He knows he can't frown, because that's not what he did in the memory, but he wants to. Because Sam doesn't sing anymore. He hasn't heard him try to so much as hum since their little rendition of 'Highway to Hell' after he sold his soul.

_Dean!_

Sam whines, snapping him back to whatever twisted kind of reality he's trapped in. He tries not to think about the fact that his current-day, non-ten-year-old body is probably torturing the little kid on the other side of that door, who's all grown up now in both the best and worst of ways. He's almost glad to get lost in his childhood. At least he can pretend he still has more time left with his family than he knows he has. Not that this is a predominantly good memory he'd want to recall.

Dean knows this particular Christmas, even if he kind of wishes he didn't. Before he can think about it, and because it's what happened the first time, he has no choice but to open the door and watch his little brother run to the poor excuse of a make-shift tree, with the tacky red light shining in his eyes. He waits for the disappointment to hit Sam's face, but it doesn't come. Sam's excited, grinning. Dean can remember wondering, at the time, if Sam even knew what a real Christmas morning was supposed to look like, or if he thought this was what all the other kids woke up to.

Six year old Sam was a happy Sam. Until Dean ruined it. Again.

_You got em? For me?_

Sammy's eyes widen as he picks up the new set of leggos (new to him at least) and Dean doesn't have the heart to tell him he pocketed them from a garage sale, along with the two books also sitting under the couch that Dean realizes as an adult now, were way too advanced for the kid's reading levels at the time. It doesn't keep him from smiling and leafing through the pages, though.

If Dean actually had a choice, he would be able to contain the matching grin that spreads across his cheeks, a blush reddening at the base of his neck. He knows what will happen next, but he didn't back then. No wonder he's smiling, despite the terror that's beginning to knot up in his stomach. When this happened the first time, he was finally starting to think he'd done something right.

He didn't.

Dean knows it's about to happen, but he can't make his body shift away from what actually happened all those years ago. He tries to jump in front of Sam, but his body just stays there, all dopey and smiling and unaware of the situation at hand. It's infuriating, really, to know something's about to happen that he can't do shit about.

As expected, one of the little red lights sparks too-close to Sam's head. One of the books catches the flame first, and latches onto his little brother's hair. Sam screams, his hands flying up instinctively to slap away at the flames all too close to his ears, burning just the tips of them a sun-burn red.

Dean's sleeve catches, too, but it's out in a flash. He ignores the burns trailing his arm. He'll be fine. He knew it then, and he knows it now. He was going to be fine. Even if his current-day body still bares burn scars, he's completely fine.

Well, other than that pesky demon problem… that might not be so fine. But he isn't supposed to know about that yet so what's the point in worrying about it?

_It's ruined. _

Sam practically wails, looking at the charred book, one hand still clutching his ear while Dean scrounges the motel room for a first aid kit. Burn cream, Neosporin… anything to ease the pain that keeps him from being able to move his arm. Lucky for him, Sam seems just shaken up instead of actually, physically hurt. And even though Dean knows they both survive this, it doesn't keep the relief from spreading over him. Sam isn't hurt. He's just a little scared. Dean remembers it still… The relief of realizing he was the only one in pain. He doesn't have that anymore. He'll do anything to know he's the only one getting hurt. The relief only lasts for a second though.

And then the front door of the motel room slams shut.

_Dammit, Dean! Sam, are you alright?_

Fear shoots through his body, and Dean hates himself for it. He should be happy, to hear his father's voice again. He should smile, at least on the inside. But his Dad still scares him. His dad has always scared him, even if he'll never admit it to Sam.

He isn't a bad person. God, John Winchester was a hero. But he was a hero who couldn't take care of his own kids, that's for sure.

_I'm sorry, sir. I'm fixing it. Sam's fine. _

His mouth forms the words without thinking it. And he can't help but notice, this time, that his dad didn't ever ask about him.

He watches, with a blush on his face, as his dad slams breakfast angrily on the table.

_You could have waited for me to do Christmas. _

John glares and the fear runs up Dean's spine like ice water. He can't decide if it's how he feels now or a part of the memory. Maybe it's both.

_We didn't know you'd be home. _

Little-Dean does his best to smile, even though on the inside the real one is fuming. He's starting to see it now, all the things about Dad that Sam always told him about. The shitty way he's treating his kids, the unnecessary glares he's throwing at him. And it makes him angry. How could he worship him for so long and not see it?

_Pass the salt, Daddy? _

Sam asks, trying to ignore the tense atmosphere around him.

Both Dean and John reach for it, and then the memory ends.

His eyes snap open at the same time he lets out a breath of relief. He's in his full-grown, normal body. He has control. And, thank the lord, he's still paused in front of the torture-chamber doors. The demon didn't take over, it only paralyzed him. For now that is. He can hardly feel the darkness now, letting him know that he's getting stronger. He can handle this— Again, only for now.

"Dean?" Sam asks, his voice deep and pleading, so different from the cheerful, singing boy he just watched playing with blue and yellow leggos on a motel room carpet, "Please, just let us out."

So he reaches for the doorknob, and before the demon can strike at his mind and take over, he tells both of them to run.


	18. Chapter 18

The second the door is opened, all hell breaks loose. No pun intended.

Dean's fight with himself is lost, and if Sam wasn't so busy sprinting away, he would probably be able to pinpoint the exact moment his brother goes demon. Cas, on the other hand, stays behind just long enough to watch his eyes go dark. And if he didn't know any better, he would say they're darker than ever. And they are. There is no cruel humor in his posture, only pure lividness. Cold heartedness. Merciless longing to kill, and the kill is fixed on him.

"Run," Cas remembers his whisper just before going under, but he can't make his legs move. He's too lost in the pools of black where he used to gaze into and see a soul. No matter how hard he searches, this time, there's no soul to be found.

"Dammit, Cas!" Sam calls, yanking him quite literally out of his thoughts, and pulling him out of the room. Salt lines replace the carpet where only grains of white and the kitchen door keep them from the living room where he paces. Cas can hear his even footing, the tap of the toe of his boot on the living room floors. It's unnerving to listen to, but it's better than hearing his own thoughts. Because the only thing he can manage to think about is how many times Dean has fought the enemy, only for the enemy to turn into himself.

"What do we do?" Castiel's speech comes out rushed and harsh.

"Not a fucking clue," Sam just shakes his head, pacing nearly in sync with the sound of his brother's footsteps. They think, their brains scanning every piece of knowledge they've ever come to remember about demons and possession and the fucking Mark of Cain that got them into this shit, but there's nothing. Panic replaced determination, and Cas' mouth opens to snap. They need to move on. Run and get help. Standing around and waiting won't help anyone, especially not Dean.

"Samuel," He's going to pull the middle name card that he's seen mother figures use on the television, so that Sam listens to him this time, but instead he has to pause, "Sam— Samuel… Wait, what's your middle name?"

"Is now really the time to wonder? God, Cas, we've got a possessed, pissed off demon in the other room who has control of my brother's body and you're worried about my middle name?" His tone is just a few levels too harsh for Castiel's liking in this moment.

"I'm not aware of your brother's either. I think it's due time that I learn these things about my friends. If we're going to save each other I think it's appropriate to know that w—"

"Well, gee, thank you buddy, but if we don't come up with a plan you won't have any friends to wonder about." The fact that Sam keeps cutting him off only adds to the ticked off mood he's in. Maybe he should have learned, by now though, that the demon in the other room feeds off of anger. Maybe then nothing bad would happen. Either way, it doesn't stop him from yelling.

"I'm sorry, I don't perform well under pressure! Maybe if I—"

"Oh boys?" A sing-songy voice stops their frantic bickering, "This door pushes, not pulls. Which means…" They watch in horror as the door opens, breaking the salt line in front of it, "I can just walk right through."

The smile that takes over Dean Winchester's face in that moment is exactly what reminds them that he is not Dean Winchester. His grin is eerie and sick, spreading across his face like the Cheshire cat. He's a psychopath. Worse, he's a demonic psychopath, with no problem when it comes to the topic of killing. It's not hard to figure out who the victims are, either.

He's armed with a knife, he's pissed off because of them, and they're stuck, because now, well, now they have to figure out what to do with him— and fast.

"Dean—" Sam raises his hands up cautiously from the other side of the kitchen counter, "Dean, calm down. Let's talk about this. We can—"

_"What is there to talk about?" _Dean booms in a painful-sounding ear-piercing scream that practically makes Cas jump fifty feet in the air. Dean pounds his fists into the table top with a rough _thud _followed by an even rougher _crack!_ The wood underneath them splits, splinters and large pieces of jagged wood jabbing into his hands. But Dean doesn't even flinch. He just keeps his charcoal stare fixed permanently on them, unblinking. Unfeeling. Inhuman.

"What are you going to do?" Sam tries a more threatening, cocky approach— probably hoping to appeal to that side of the monster in front of them, "Lock us up? Kill us? Torture us? Dean, that's just not your style."

"You're right," the smile widens, "It's yours. You lock us up. Torture us… You kill, too. I mean, how many of our kind have you put a blade into this week alone?"

"Your kind?" Sam stutters, "You mean a— a demon? A- A monster?"

"Well, that's how you see us, isn't it? We're a monster."

"Stop talking like… as if you two are the same. I want to talk to you, Dean. _You. _Not this _thing _that you keep losing control of."

"I _have _control, Sam!" Dean yells, throwing his hands up in the air, "I have every last ounce of it."

"Prove it."

"What?"

"Prove you have control. Switch it back."

Silence falls over them, and suddenly the wire in Cas' brain clicks. Sam has a plan. Sam has always had a plan.

"I'm not an idiot." He says, but it's a godforsaken fact that no demon can back down from a challenge. Especially when the vessel can't do it either. Dean was never one to back down. Never in a million fucking years. So why should that change with this humanity at steak?

"I never said you were," Sam shrugs, "Just give me two seconds with the human side, and then you can go right back to the whole killing machine thing you have going on."

And like magic, the black is gone. Cas can honestly say his new favorite color is green, because that's the only thing he ever wants to see when he looks into those eyes. Green as the fields of his favorite heaven. He'll never look at the color black again.

"Sammy?" he chokes out, and Cas tries to ignore the little ball of jealousy that wads up in his throat when he realizes Sam is the only one he sees.

Little clear pools of tears well up and cloud over the beautiful green, spilling over his fever-flushed cheeks. Castiel wants to look away, but knows he can't afford to. Any look he gets at Dean Winchester could be his last.

"Hey," Sam's mouth twitches into a soft smile, but pity and knowing sadness burns behind his eyes. Then Cas gets it. This isn't a plan, or a rescue mission, or an elaborate scheme to trap the demon.

This is a goodbye.

"You and-and Cas…" His eyes flicker briefly over to the angel in the corner, his lip quivering just slightly enough that he can't help but stare as they tremble, "You need to get out of here. Lock me up, Sam. Do it."

But Sam shakes his head, his throat tightening. He's trying to keep it together, they can all see him trying to look reassuring, but his will is crumbling fast. Tears of his own start to form and his head shaking gets too fast and frantic looking.

"No," he chokes out, "No, no I can't do that. Cas Can leave if he wants but… I can't. I can't leave you alone. You— you hate being alone. "

Sam's eyes dart to the side, unable to meet his brother's disapproving glare.

"I'm not going to let you die over this. If you stay I will change back and I will kill you," Dean's voice hardens, and the tears stop falling on command. Cas suspects it's a trick he learned over the years of taking care of Sammy. You never let him see your weaknesses. You let Sam believe you're fearless and a hero. Dean has learned how to master the façade of being strong, even when he knows Sam has learned to see right through it, "I'm okay, Sammy. I'll manage alone in here. Hell, this other side of me… he makes for good conversation." The sad little chuckle that leaves his lips breaks Castiel's heart. Maybe literally. It feels like he's about to have a heart attack, like the sadness in his chest is leaving a gaping hole where his vessel's heart should be.

"Don't joke about this," Sam refuses to be the first to break down, even though his jaw is starting to tremble, breaking up all of his words like he's standing barefoot in the snow, "Don't you dare fucking—" He breaks off into a sob, and Dean's arms are around him instantaneously.

The angel watches Sam's humongous frame cripple in sadness, bending over his brother's smaller form in nothing short of grief. He's grieving for him, because he's already as good as dead.

"Get out," Dean repeats in his ear, hot breath sending chills down his spine, "Don't let me kill you, because I don't want to have to feel that. If you love me—" He has to stop and take in a shaky breath, "If you have any ounce of love left for me, you won't make me go through that. Please go… I don't want to hurt you." His voice breaks agonizingly at the end, making him sound like the small, defenseless child he never got to be.

That last sentence is directed at both of them, and Cas is stuck like a deer in headlights as Dean makes eye contact from across the room. They've stared at each other like this so many times, gauging each other's emotions, having silent conversations with just a look of the eye. But this is the last time, most definitely, and Cas doesn't think he can handle that.

So instead of speaking, he only nods and tries to send him the one look that will tell him everything he needs to know. _You are a good man, _this look says, _you are a good friend. You were there when I needed you most, and I am here for you now. I respect you, and you will not be forgotten. _

And by the look Dean gives back, he understands.

"Take care of yourself," he smiles, his voice thick with too much emotion and not enough time, "And you," he claps a hand on Sam's shoulder, giving it a little shake with a matching not-quite-reaching-his-eyes smile, "You will always be my brother," he reaches into his pocket, letting the cool metal press into his hand before dropping them into Sam's— Keys. The Impala's keys, "Don't forget about me, okay?"

"Never," Sam sobs, sniffing once to regain his composure.

"Now, Cas buddy, I'd normally tell you to take care of Sammy," Dean's smile fades, looking down at the ground, "But I think he can take care of himself now."

He turns around to walk away, then, but Sam stops him one more time.

"Dean I love—"

"No chick flick moments?" Dean says it like a question, or at least tries to say, but his self-control is broken and his words sound like squeaky, cracking noises from his chest. Tears stream freely down his face, sobs erupting from his lungs, but he doesn't turn around to face them. He doesn't want them to see.

"Dean?" Sam asks, stepping forward cautiously, and his brother spins around.

It all happens too fast. Cas isn't quick enough to intercept. Sam isn't quick enough to leap out of the way. Dean is on top of him, pressing him against a wall. And its not… _Dean_ anymore.

"That was cute," he smirks, and there is no more green in Castiel's life. He's been swallowed by a black hole, watching helplessly as Dean— the demon, so far from the human he was only seconds ago— lifts the knife up into the air, his target obvious— Sam's neck.

"Stop," Sam chokes around his brother's hand that's wrapped around the base of his throat, "Please, this isn't you, Dean."

And a miracle happens. Well, at first they all think it's a miracle. Dean's eyes go green, so fucking green, and they're a pair of pain-filled and teary red rimmed eyes… but they're human. He's human.

"I told you to run," he rasps out, and then his hand comes down. In one swift motion, the blade makes contact with skin.

It's not Sam's.

"No!" Sam cries out, hands thrusting forward to stop the knife from cutting open his abdomen, but it's too late. The eyes that are— human, thank god— are now draining. The life of them is draining. Cas watches in mute horror as they go from vibrant heavenly-field green to the dull, sea-glass color that fills them. Still beautiful. Less living.

"Sam?" His eyebrows furrow, almost like he's more confused than he is in pain, "Sam, I-I don't want to die."

"Then it's a good thing you wont," Sam smiles, but his head snaps to Cas, "Call an ambulance. Now."

_A/N I'm sorry, I know I know I suck for taking so long to update... ugh I'm sorry I'm rubbish_


End file.
